


I knew nothing but shadows

by beautifulwhensarcastic



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe, Dubious Morality, F/M, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Torture, Infinity Stones, Nomad Steve Rogers, Steve and Peggy are Children of Thanos, poorly written fighting scenes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-16
Updated: 2020-07-17
Packaged: 2020-08-20 18:53:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 31,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20232694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beautifulwhensarcastic/pseuds/beautifulwhensarcastic
Summary: Children of Thanos aren't meant to care for the life they had before Father took them in. Neither Nomad nor Margaret remember much of Terra for it to matter anyway, or to feel any kind of connection between them. Truthfully, they'd sooner cut the other's throat than bond.





	1. Chapter 1

Margaret flipped the switchblade in her hand then cut a piece of fruit. Pink juice trickled down her fingers and dripped to the ground. She didn't bother to wipe it away.

Eyes focused on the bodies moving on the arena, she brought the slice to her lips. Her tongue nearly grazed the blade still within her hand.

Not the worst of the wounds she'd sustained this day. The gash along her left leg was pulsing with pain. She should have gone to her quarters and smear some phodelacee on it, before a nasty infection gets in and she's forced to let Maw touch her.

She'd rather chop her leg off.

But then she wouldn't be able to fight in the sparring sessions for a while. It was a low, but the only form of entertainment when on the ship. Participating or observing- both options felt exhilarating to Margaret.

A vicious streak in her enjoyed when blood here was spilled. Some more than other's.

Each wound she caused sparked cruel joy. Margaret liked to expand it, even if the outcome made her body ache all over and caked her braid in sweat and blood.

Watching didn't evoke that rush, but it was entertaining nonetheless.

Corner of her lips curled upwards at Corvus' aggravated groan. Grooves on his face tightened in anger. He snarled like a trapped animal facing its end. This fight was already lost and he knew it.

For his part, Nomad looked bored.

His unimpressed look annoyed Corvus further.

Truthfully, it often irritated Margaret too.

Nomad had a narrow scale of face expressions. It tipped from indifference to frown, and nothing else. His features were always hard, the only sign of his own irritation a barely noticeable twitch in his jaw – which could be easily missed thanks to his beard if one didn't pay attention.

Margaret did. She often studied him, searching for weaknesses. While any member of the Black Order occasionally topped her in a fight, it was only Nomad who got the upper hand with her every bloody time.

The more she cherished each wound she caused him.

Unfortunately, there weren't many chances to see anyone else damage him seriously. Fucker could even wipe the floor with Cull if he felt dedicated enough.

Corvus was really no match, though he thought himself to be.

They both were skilled, but where Corvus relied mostly on the power of his glaive Nomad used each part of himself as a weapon. His shield was only an extension of his body. Which, Margaret had to admit, was smart.

If he ever found himself without the shield, he still was lethal. Corvus lost ground under his feet when separated from the glaive.

Corvus swung the glaive low, but Nomad jumped over it then twisted his body, kicking Corvus' in the chest. The impact knocked him over, polearm sliding across the ground, far from his reach. Corvus quickly rolled over, but Nomad was faster. He kicked the pole up with his foot.

Glave now in his hand, shield in the other, he stood in place waiting for Corvus to admit defeat.

Jaw clenching, Corvus lifted his hand up in surrender. Nomad gave a short nod then tossed him the polearm. He swung the shield onto his back, clipping it to the harness. Then he turned and walked out. Like nothing happened.

Margaret watched him leave. His heavy boots made the ramp crates rattle.

She quickly averted her gaze when Nomad passed Maw, who was now descending. It rarely helped in avoiding the mindwarping bastard's attention. Which was zeroed in on her at the moment.

„Margaret.” His voice was poisonous. She got nauseous every time he spoke. Especially when he spoke to her.

„Father asks for you,” Maw made a soft gesture with his hand. One flick of his fingers could send her across the room. Pin her in place while he tore her piece by piece.

She'd cut his hands off, if she could.

She tossed the rest of the fruit aside carelessly, knowing sooner or later scurmorpha will get it in its paws. Scurmorpha could be considered a pet. Though no one ever petted or played with it. It just... lived on the ship. Peeking out from its hiding spots to catch some leftovers, or to occasionally steal small objects that dropped down to the floor.

Margaret followed Maw down the corridors. Her fingers itched to reach for her weapon. To extract her staff and keep the creepy squid at the length of it – serrated tip against his throat.

That wouldn't end well.

When they entered Thanos' throne room Maw floated to the side, but Margaret still felt his gaze on her as she walked forward and kneeled.

„Father.” She bowed her head.

„Tell me of the scepter, Margaret.”

She reported right after escaping Sakaar's sucking void, a concise message stripped of unnecessary details which Margaret always found pointless to include. Father, however, liked nuances. He fished them out and used against unexpecting victims.

„The scepter in Grandmaster's possession is a fake. A perfect replica, but without the power.” She spoke as she stood up. „Something that no one knows, of course.”

„_You_ know.” Thanos pointed out. His expression was unreadable.

„I'm the best spy.” Margaret replied, dispassionately.

Thanos smirked, it slowly spread into half of a smile. It didn't make him any less scary and ruthless. She doubted anything could make him seem softer.

„Where's the scepter now?” He asked. His tone remained calm, but Margaret knew Father's disappointment if she didn't have an acceptable answer would be shown.

„All indicates the Collector has it.” No one beside the Grandmaster himself knew the truth of the events, but Margaret was skilled in recognizing threads that matched a pattern. „The two are known to occasionally play power games to entertain themselves. Collector more than anyone else could get close to that hedonistic narcissus. Also, he's powerful enough.”

Thanos pondered over her words. Margaret never talked of theories, rather of high probabilities.

„The Asgardians-” suddenly Maw floated closer.

„The Asgardians are bold and overconfident.” Margaret took a fast step toward, interrupting before Maw managed to undermine her. Instinctively, she slid her foot slightly forward.

Putting her weight on the injured leg instantly increased the pain. It shot in hot spikes up her calf and thigh, searing to her lower back.

She showed no sign of ache.

„They attack openly. Their pride sees clever sneaking as a method too low for their godly status.” She snorted. „No, Asgardians don't have it.”

„I agree.” Thanos gave a small nod. He stood up and walked over to a wide panel on the side of the room. It was made of metal plates, each glinted a different cold color. „We'll track Collector's hideout. In due time.”

Margaret said nothing. As the silence stretched she understood it means the meeting is over. She bowed her head, even though he had his back to her.

She moved to leave the room when Thanos' voice froze her in spot.

„Your leg is hurt, daughter.” He said, but didn't turn around to look at her.

„I had a squabble with a scrapper on Sakaar. It was quite fun.” Margaret grinned, remembering a rather even fight with the woman.

Thanos turned his head slightly. „Do you need Maw to take care of it?”

Margaret felt a cold shudder ripple down her spine. She could feel Maw's gaze burning into her, knew he was looking for any sign betraying weakness. He fed on it sadistically.

Voice impassive, she responded- „A minor thing. Nothing a phodelacee can't heal.”

Then she strode out. Her back was ramrod straight, no wobble in her step even for a split of a second. Sweat pearled on the back of her neck, but Margaret kept the pace until she reached her quarters.

Only after sealing the door behind her she let a breath out.

Margaret gritted her teeth, the pain was getting worse. She limped to the tiny bathroom. If it even could be called that. But it had basic amenities, so she wasn't going to complain.

She took off her fingerless gloves. Red lines marked her skin where the seams dug in. In terms of body durability, as a Terran she was fragile. Her skin was softer and bruised easily compared to other Black Order members.

Proxima liked to remind her of that.

Zipper of her suit got stuck just below her breasts and Margaret struggled to get it open. Finally, after a string of curses, she managed to pull it down. She peeled the upper half of the darkblue suit off her body and checked for other injuries.

She hissed in pain when pulling the suit down her legs. The gash on her left leg was mad red, skin around it inflamed.

It hurt even more when she went under the spray. Orange antibacterial was good at getting rid of germs, but it stung like a bitch in contact with fresh wounds. Margaret had to bite on her fist to stop herself from screaming.

Steam cleaned off any orange remnants, but her body was now pink like piglet's. Gently, she patted herself dry then picked a jar of phodelacee from a small, metal cabinet. Cool gel instantly soothed ache where she applied it slowly along the cut.

Margaret sighed with relief.

Trying not to put much strain on her injured leg, she exited bathroom and walked to her bed. She didn't bother to put any clothes on, fabric would only stick to her wound.

She sat down on the bed and undid her braid with slow, gentle moves.

Margaret tended to be impatient and impulsive. She even ate fast. But this ritual she never rushed. It quieted her down. Brought a sense of safety no weapon could.

Sleep came in waves that night. Mostly it drifted away, leaving Margaret staring at the ceiling. She was tired, the ache in her leg dulled, yet her brain couldn't shut off.

It happened sometimes.

She got up and put on a pair of loose pants and a long-sleeved top. With her injury it wasn't wise to exercise, but there were other ways to ease her mind. Sitting on the top deck and staring out into space was one.

Corridors were empty. Not everyone was asleep, she knew, but at this time they mostly kept to their quarters which guaranteed needed solitude wherever she roamed.

Margaret stopped in her tracks hearing a familiar, rough voice coming from the deck.

„Why are you crying?”

Frowning, she stepped to the side, planting herself against a cold, metal wall. She leaned forward enough to peek up onto the deck without being noticed.

Nomad, still in his full suit (sans the shield), was towering over a curled up little girl.

Gamora sat with her knees pressed to her chest, arms wrapped around them. She had her back to the wall, her head tilted back to look at Nomad. Her eyes glistened. Traces of tears were visible on her green cheeks.

Margaret didn't particularly care for the girl, but if Nomad hurt her in any way she'd gut him.

„I miss my mom.” Gamora whispered.

Margaret closed her eyes and shook her head. It was the worst thing to say on this ship. A minor slip which could cause a great punishment. Something Gamora hadn't known yet, not being here long enough to learn some lessons.

Nomad stared at the girl, wordlessly. A giant compared to her tiny form. Silence grew heavy with tension. Gamora shivered, trying to crawl away from him, but there was nowhere to hide now.

Tears trickled down her face again.

No wonder. Nomad was scary as hell, maybe more than realizing her confession was dangerous to speak aloud on Sanctuary.

„Sometimes-” He clenched his hands into fists, knuckles turning white- „I miss mine, too.”

His voice lacked any softness. It was clipped, abrasive.

Margaret doubted it could bring any comfort to the little girl if even she felt it scraping at something inside her chest, rubbing it sore.

Nomad unclenched his fists and with a sharp gesture motioned for Gamora to stand up. Which she did hesitantly, suppressing a quiet sob. She was trembling, but tried to put on a brave face. No, a _hard_ face. A mirror of what she's seen all of them doing every day.

Gamora's head barely reached Nomad's waist. Margaret couldn't believe they had been as small once upon a time. Childhood seemed a forgotten, made-up realm.

„Go back to your quarters.” He commanded and Gamora obeyed instantly.

She tensed when he stepped right beside her, but then he did something unexpected – something Margaret never would've imagined him doing.

He tugged on one of Gamora's ponytails.

But when she looked up at him his face was impassive. Not a flicker of emotion. He made no other move to show kindness, leaving Margaret (and Gamorat too) wondering if the tug really happened.

Margaret slipped into a darkened passage when they stepped down on her level. They passed her without stopping. She waited until their steps faded away. Then waited some more.

Instead of going for the upper deck, she went back to her quarters.

She managed to catch two hours of sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My yet another ambitious attempt to write a multichapter. Don't want to jinx it, but so far it's going acceptably well. 
> 
> Peggy's outfit and weapon are inspired by geekynerddemon's [Art](https://geekynerddemon.tumblr.com/post/185663694947/the-never-ending-drawing-or-peggy-badass-i)


	2. Chapter 2

„I know a merchant on Xandar who deals with the Collector, or at least someone working directly for him.”

Nomad stood beside Thanos. He had his hands resting on his belt buckle, a manner suggesting confidence and leadership – and truly annoying Margaret.

She often wondered why he's Father's favourite. Because he was that, no doubt.

It wasn't Maw, who quite a while ago has become a right hand to Thanos, with rights to act without consulting Father in most cases, surpassing a rather petty position of a favourite child. It wasn't Proxima either, that cunning bitch with no remorse.

Not that Margaret particularly aspired for the position, though she felt herself worthy of it equally, if not more than others.

She rolled her eyes watching Nomad alongside Thanos while the rest of them stood as pawns.

The game Father was playing was a grand one. How big a chunk Nomad hoped to bite off of it, she wasn't sure.

He was cold-blooded and relentless, but didn't crave power. Or at least played lack of that hunger very well. He seemed to kill for the sake of killing alone. Not even to feel a thrill, just to get it done. Margaret never met anyone as impervious.

Which made her more suspicious of him. More hostile, too.

„Pay him a visit.” Thanos gave Nomad his approval. „Then follow the trail, if there's one. Contact if you locate him. Do you need an assistance?”

„I don't think it's necessary at this point.” Nomad shook his head.

He wouldn't engage in a fight against the Collector himself. Any obstacle on tacky, peaceful Xandar he could deal with alone. Besides, they were all considered most wanted. A single member of the Black Order alone would draw attention if not careful, more guaranteed recognition and arrest.

Attempt at arresting, in any case. More or less successful, depending on how many units would be engaged.

„Go then.” Thanos nodded at Nomad. „We're going for Luphom.”

Margaret noticed a slight twitch of Nomad's fingers, as if he wanted to clench them into fists and punch something. Instead, he relaxed his hands and dropped his arms to his sides.

She narrowed her eyes. Sometimes ticks were only that, an insignificant neuronal spasm. Her left eyelid often did that. However, in most cases a tremble betrayed a reaction to thought or emotion. She had trouble assessing which was the case for Nomad.

Perhaps he felt disappointment over missing out on decimation of Luphom.

He showed no other sign of frustration as he moved to leave and Margaret didn't bother to waste more time thinking about it.

At the prospect of invading Luphom everything inside her tensed in agitation.

After the meeting, she worked it out heavily on the arena, thrusting herself into a kata. Swift dance of well known, mercilessly trained moves helped Margaret to focus. It also toned down outbursts of bloodthirsty anger.

Fingers clenching around the pole, she thrust it forward then in a wide spread – using one hand only – she cut the air on the right side. Quick move and she had it back in both hands, twirling it rapidly. Push forward, then a sudden stab under her arm to hit a nonexistent opponent behind her.

Margaret's staff glinted a cold shade where the light disappeared in micro-ridges along its length. Both ends were serrated. Small jags were barely noticeable, but they cut finely.

She crossed the arena in a series of one-knee bows, each punctuated with a precise slice of her stick. She slammed one end of her staff vertically into the ground, using it as a leverage to push herself up in a graceful leap.

Instinctively reacting to a sudden swish, Margaret bent her back.

An object pierced the air right where her head was a split of a second ago.

Proxima's spear stuck into one of the pillars with a clink. Margaret rolled her eyes at how unsurprising this attack was.

Somehow, despite Proxima's mad skills, Margaret didn't really felt threatened. Quite the contrary, she was eager to fight.

They didn't manage to take a single blow, however. Maw interrupted them, with clear annoyance on his ugly face and in his voice.

„The girl is gone. Find her!” He spat at them.

Maw wouldn't care for anyone's whereabouts, unless he required their presence. The only reason he had to demand Gamora's was to inflict cruelty. He never assisted in a training of a Child, he dealt with punishment and manipulation.

Gamora was a child, but a very smart one. Surely, if Maw called for her, she knew it's not for chit-chat.

A part of Margaret – the part remembering numbing pain and warm blood trickling down her fingers – wanted to tell him off. It wasn't her role, though. Margaret never felt a protector of anyone. She wasn't about to start now.

So she gave a sharp nod and turned on her heel, knowing Proxima will take the other direction. Cooperation was never their strong skill.

Margaret thoroughly checked Gamora's quarters, as well all the nooks and dark corridors in its proximity. There was no sign of the child. She went below the main floor, where armory and rows of recon capsules provided many hiding spots.

Still nothing.

Through the comm she heard Proxima's annoyance at lack of success in locating the girl.

Frowning, she walked out onto the landing stripe. Techs were working on the fighters, preparing them for invasion of Luphom. It's possible they wouldn't notice a child sneaking around in such a vast space. Hiding on one of the ships belonging to the Order members was risky. Then again, worth forestalling a session with Ebony Maw.

Margaret's gaze slid over the sleek, black ship with green panels that belonged to her, and onto the empty space next to it.

„Clever brat.” She snorted as realization dawned on her.

Corners of her mouth titled in almost a smile.

„I know where the girl is.” She said through the comm, trying not to show any hint of amusement. „Getting her will take some time, though."

"She sneaked onto Nomad's ship.”

Margaret felt immense satisfaction at Maw's anger. Unfortunately, it also meant more pain for Gamora when she's returned. A lesson one has to push through to become a Child Of Thanos.

„Bring her.” Maw hissed.

They couldn't interject with the order Nomad got from Thanos. One girl was insignificant compared to the hunt for Infinity Stones. Someone else had to do the boring task of bringing a stray back.

Margaret boarded her ship without much preparation. Nomad was about three jumps ahead to Xandar, which gave Gamora enough time to disappear and seek help if Margaret didn't rush.

* * *

Splashes of color against clean spaces were annoyingly distracting. Margaret couldn't remember the last time she saw a place so... lively.

It was giving her a headache

Outskirts where she found Nomad's ship and landed herself were more bearable with its dark forests and shiny, marble formations. It was peaceful.

Unlike the capitol of Xandar, which was full of noise, people and structures.

It was magnificent in its own way, but more annoying the more of various buildings appeared in her sight. So much color and light. Margaret couldn't blend in, not with her dark suit and tightly weaved braid. To avoid drawing too much attention, she slowed her pace and kept away from empty spaces.

She stopped at a little cart to buy a ravia juice from a smiling man, and stole a fistful of candied cylamens.

It'd be easy to miss a little girl in a crowd, but to Gamora's disadvantage Zen-Whoberis were a rare species. Margaret also knew what to look for. Perhaps it would serve the girl better if she acted a lost child, approaching any adult person and asking for help.

Wary and logical, Gamora aimed for police units that were closer to city's centre. Which meant she wasted valuable time that could be used on hiding, or getting further away.

It took Margaret less than an hour to spot the girl. She tsked at the hesitance Gamora showed, clearly scared of making a decision.

Faster than most, Margaret jumped over the ledge and snagged Gamora before the girl managed to approach Xandarian guards patrolling the main square.

Surprisingly, Gamora didn't put up much fight, nor did she scream.

With a heavy sigh she resigned herself to walk beside Margaret without objection when she dragged her into the alleys further away from the city centre. No threats were needed.

Was Gamora scared of her so much, or has she given up on the life she was still hoping to get?

A burning sensation filled Margaret's chest. She rubbed the spot forcefully, willing it away.

„I'm going to teach you how to move around invisible.” Margaret said with fierce determination, her fingers clasped tightly around Gamora's hand.

If ever again Gamora was chased by anyone, she'd make sure the girl had the highest chance at never being caught. Even if it meant outsmarting Margaret herself.

They reached city borders when Margaret noticed traces of dried tears on Gamora's face. She hasn't heard a single sniffle, which meant the girl was getting better at hiding emotions. _Good_, Margaret thought. A step toward survival.

Without much thought on why, Margaret reached into a pocket and fished out two candied cylamens. She gave Gamora one and popped the other into her own mouth.

Gamora frowned at her, but took the treat. Her small fingers readjusted in Margaret's grip, tightening their hold.

A hot, choking feeling stirred Margaret anew. She swallowed it down with another candy.

They took it slower through the woods than required. Margaret told herself she matched her pace to a child's shorter steps, but she could not help looking around, memorizing flares of light between crowns of green. Grass beneath their feet seemed softer too. It was a nice change to unyielding, metal crates and floors on a cold spaceship.

Margaret never bothered to spend much time on planets they invaded. She saw no point, considering in the end she always had to get back to confines of the Sanctuary.

She wanted to leave this one too.

When they neared the clearing where Margaret landed next to Nomad's spacecraft she spotted two figures beside his ship. One was Nomad. The other, however, she didn't recognize.

Not a merchant, that Margaret was sure of.

Someone else. Someone who knew Nomad. Who had a business with him, considering how close and unthreatening to each other they stood.

Hair of flaming red dispersing into white at the ends was distinctive, but Margaret not once has seen or heard of anyone like that. Judging by the silhouette and slight curves noticeable in a heavy, black uniform, it was a female.

A mask covered bottom half of her face.

Piercing, grey eyes bore into Margaret for a long moment as her and Gamora approached. It was an assessing look – one a warrior gave his opponent. Margaret held her gaze.

Before any challenge could be made, the woman turned her head and nodded at Nomad wordlessly. Then she walked away, disappearing behind trees so quickly it seemed she turned invisible. Perhaps she could.

„What are you doing here?” Nomad frowned at them, his gaze going from Margaret to Gamora and back.

Their presence was very much unwanted – that much Margaret could tell. Truthfully, Nomad never looked happy with her anywhere near him, and vice versa. Usually, though, he didn't show his disapproval so openly.

He did now, which was curious.

Not yet suspicious. Neither her, nor Nomad would share their contacts and tricks with the other, so his silence about mysterious woman didn't pique Margaret's interest. It's the woman herself that made her interested.

She looked like a soldier, but bore no marks of formations known to Margaret. And she knew them all. Of all the important, or dangerous places.

„You had a little extra cargo.” Margaret pointed at Gamora, who was no longer holding her hand. „I suspect she managed to stay hidden on your ship the whole time, then took her chance when you went to the capitol.”

Forehead creased, hands on his hips, Nomad looked angry. Was it with Gamora's escape, or with their presence here, Margaret couldn't tell.

„Maw awaits her.” Margaret said.

She ignored how the girl flinched, focused on searching for microsigns on Nomad's face. They both knew what her words meant, what was about to happen to Gamora. She wanted to see if he shows... something.

There it was – a twitch in his jaw. She nearly grinned, happy with herself for noticing.

Nomad's gaze slid to Gamora, who looked up at him with hope. She searched for protection, but it wouldn't come. Not from this man.

Margaret watched him too. He closed his eyes for a moment, as if unable to hold Gamora's gaze. When he opened them again they held no emotion, as always.

He was a cold son of a bitch.

They all were heartless, treating death as the only form of mercy. When they spilled blood, however, emotions were involved. More than anger. Twisted, perverse ones. Nomad shown none. He was a fucking machine.

„Then take her back,” he said, turning his back on them. „I have a lead to follow.”

He offered no more explanation, not even a scrap of information to where he's headed. It wasn't unusual. Nomad answered only to Thanos. He cared for nothing other but the mission, too. Catering to Margaret's curiosity was the last on his list of interests.

Margaret watched him board his ship then shook her head. _Self-righteous prick._

She was sure there was more to said lead. Information and machinations he didn't want anyone else to know of. Perhaps not even Father.

Huffing in annoyance, Margaret moved toward her own aircraft.

After few steps she realized Gamora wasn't following her. She was rooted to the spot, staring at Nomad's dark grey ship, refusing to move when Margaret tugged on her hand. She had to pull her forcefully to get her moving.

Once on a ship, Gamora sat stiffly in one of the side seats. She did not cry, but looked close to. When Margaret gave her more candied cylamens she threw them away.

For a long moment, utterly bewildered, Margaret observed as Gamora yanked ribbons off her hair. She ruined her braids, letting her hair fall in a mess around her face. She tugged at the strands angrily, undoubtedly causing herself pain.

„Stop it!” Margaret ordered, not knowing what else to do.

She quickly went to the cockpit, preferring not to see if Gamora hurt herself further.

Buckling in, Margaret switched the engines on. She started typing in coordinates, but stopped halfway. Her fingers hovered over the board.

She should get back. The longer they were away the worse it would be for Gamora. Not that Maw was capable of being easy, anyway. There was a thought at the back of Margaret's head, though. Not related to Gamora at all.

She couldn't quiet down the instinct that told her Nomad was hiding something big. It tempted her to follow a lead how a kitten follows a rolling ball of yarn.

Who the fuck has Nomad been really talking to and where was he going?

Margaret, as Thanos' best spy, thought herself obligated to have a hand on pulse of matters. Especially those potentially endangering Father's great plans.

She deleted previous coordinates and typed in Nomad's code. She had everyone's personal codes, of which they weren't aware, of course.

Computer instantly copied the route Nomad had just chosen.

Wherever he was going, she was going there too.


	3. Chapter 3

Impulsive nature had caused Margaret a few problems through the years. She was aware it was a fault she should be working on, not bending to its whims. But she couldn't stop herself. It was, after all, an impulse.

Which she cursed loudly when she disembarked her ship and stepped right into a calf-high puddle.

Smaller and bigger eyes of water were splattered around – the only remnants of vast oceans which typically made most of Morag. Every few centuries the water dropped low enough to reveal caverns and columns of purple rock.

The fact Nomad went to Morag exactly the year the grounds were visible wasn't a coincidence.

Margaret landed further away from him, hiding her ship behind two twisted arches of water-carved rocks.

She spent a good moment deciding on what to do with Gamora, who simply fell asleep. She doubted the girl could fly an aircraft on her own, but just to avoid additional problems she tied Gamora to a chair she rested in.

Then she followed Nomad.

Margaret took careful steps. She could avoid bigger pools, but not water itself. Geysers sprayed fountains of water all around – some forming only a cold mist, others thrusting gallons of water high in the air. It made the foundation slippery.

With random splashes of water, as well high-pitched screeches of local rodents, her steps were barely audible. Still, she moved behind rocks to mask her presence.

Nomad was far in front of her, but he was perceptive.

She watched, crouched behind a monolith split in two, as he crossed a stone bridge over a deadly deep crevice.

A nearby geyser erupted with noise, throwing out a spray of water at least ten feet high. It fell in a heavy curtain around, washing over the bridge. Fog was thicker there, too, and she couldn't quite see what was on the other side.

When Nomad disappeared in a labyrinth of rocks and mist, she carefully walked down.

The bridge looked solid, but it was deceptive. The surface was slippery, edges sharp and crumbly, and a veil of fog didn't help matters.

Margaret pushed a small rock off the bridge, listening to its fall. The sound of hitting bottom never came. If she fell, no one would ever know.

„Bloody hell.” She groaned.

She could've been sitting in her quarters on Sanctuary now, toying with a Barinian geomagnetic puzzle. Instead, she was risking stupid injury, if not death, simply because she couldn't stand not knowing everything.

But she wouldn't go back at this point.

Margaret never backed away.

She looked straight ahead, clenched her fists, then marched on. In a rather rushed pace, hoping to avoid being washed down by an unexpected cascade. She reached safety with her heartrate only slightly increased.

There, in a forest of stalagmites she noticed a paved path leading somewhere. Whatever was at the end of it had been swallowed in depths of oceans for nearly three hundred years. Which meant someone wanted it to stay hidden.

Margaret never heard of anything of potential value on Morag. The abandoned planet had been robbed of any valuable remnants centuries ago.

It irked her that Nomad clearly knew of something no one else did. Something _she_ didn't know.

On the other side of a narrow passage between two blocks a meadow of algae splayed in front of a building. Or rather what was left of it. A row of collumns, most of them chipped and unstable, supported a roof carved out of a solid rock the whole building seemed to be merged into.

Wide gates were open.

Margaret slowly walked up the wet steps. She was listening for any signs of movement, but nothing other than a static buzzing could be heard. Pressing her back to the wall, she slipped inside.

There wasn't much light in a surprisingly small chamber, only flickers of neon purple danced in the rusty, gold plates covering the walls. The light came from the back of the room where beams in magnetic capsule buzzed. A silver orb levitated inside of it.

She nearly choked on a gasp, realizing what it was.

_He's done it._ She thought in awe.

For the first time Margaret felt something akin to appreciation towards Nomad. Understanding, at that moment at least, why Father chose him to lead the quest for the Infinity Stones. One of which he has just found.

Such power encapsulated in a steel sphere. One step toward Father's destiny.

Universe's destiny.

An angry pang in her chest threatened to evoke dissonance at the thought of the great harmony which would fall upon all worlds when Thanos' plan is completed. It quickly disappeared.

Margaret moved a step further, her side pressed to the damp wall. Single, short hair around her face curled widly from humidity.

Nomad had his back to her. He was holding up a slick, red device in his hands. Not one of theirs technology. It produced a bundle of blue lights that scanned the capsule up and down.

Then a voice came through the device and Margaret found herself struck.

It was an unknown, male voice. Speaking Terran. The way he talked, however, how he rounded the vowels... Margaret spoke like that!

No one else did.

Nomad, though Terran himself, sounded diffent. His intonation always rougher, and flat. He tried to mock her voice once when they were in their teenage years. She broke his nose for that.

It was bewildering, hearing someone speak like her. She wasn't listening to the words, only to the flow of a low, somewhat distinguished tone.

Focused on the accent of a faceless voice, Margaret temporarily blinded herself to her surroundings.

Too late she recognized a quiet shuffle approaching behind her. A shadow filed her peripheral vision. Her fingers twitched instinctively. Within a blink of an eye a gun was pointed at her head.

„I suggest you don't move.”

The voice was a trickle of honey along a blade – seductively sweet and raspy, but with a cold edge to it.

Margaret turned her head marginally, until she noticed a flare of characteristic red hair. It was the woman she saw with Nomad on Xandar.

She shifted her gaze back to Nomad, who had turned and watched them with expression Margaret couldn't decipher. For a moment it looked like fear. It couldn't be, he never knew fear. His features hardened as he locked his eyes with her.

Slowly, Margaret lifted her hands in surrender.

„No!” Nomad yelled, immediately recognizing what she was about to do.

Margaret spun faster than her opponent could predict. The gun fired when she was already twirling her body low, using one of her legs to cut redhead off balance. Bullet ricochet off the wall.

The woman did a quick, graceful flip, standing back on her feet. Gun still in her hand, she aimed it at Margaret. A flash of silver knocked the gun out of her grasp. But Readhead, as any warrior, reacted instinctively by reaching for the next weapon

She unbuckled two batons from her sides, blue current fizzling on ends. When she faced Margaret again, it was to discover a long, silver staff in her hands. Which she definitely wasn't holding just a minute ago.

„Fuck.” Nomad cursed under his breath.

He didn't have time for this mess.

Believing Natasha's capable of handling Margaret at least for a few minutes, he returned to his task. He was a step away from getting the stone. An objective he knew Natasha saw as priority over her own life.

In this she wasn't much different from any Child of Thanos.

Margaret countered each of Natasha's moves, though not without effort. Redhead was more agile, her moves more fluid than any of Margaret's previous opponents. She was swift and annoying like a hummingbird.

Their fight carried out of the temple in a dance of steps and punches, echo of frustrated groans and metal clashing carried over the open space.

With a series of short, sharp moves, Margaret managed to knock one of the batons out of Natasha's hand. At the same moment, however, Natasha grabbed a hold of the staff, blocking Margaret's next move.

Using the pole as leverage, Natasha swung her body up and over Margaret's shoulders. Her thighs clenched around Margaret's neck. Hands grabbed onto the staff, trying to use it against her as well.

Suddenly, the rod retracted. Both ends folded into the middle, until it was barely above hand-size.

As it folded, serrated ends cut through the fabric of Natasha's gloves, piercing her skin. Blood dripped.

Margaret deliberately fell back, so they both went down on the ground. Their backs hit the stairs. It hurt as hell, but was enough to get the redhead loosen her grip.

Bouncing back on her feet, Margaret extended the staff again. Wrapping both hands around it, she pulled it back over her shoulder then aimed to thrust it full force into her opponent's face.

An object clashed with her pole. Collision of metal producted sizzling sparks.

Rapidly thrust shield knocked the staff out of Margaret's hand. It fell to the ground with a clang. The shield bounced off a rock, chipping it.

Nomad caught it mid air.

Margaret stood motionless, shocked. Her fingertips seemed to be vibrating from the force of the impact.

When she looked up Nomad was already positioning himself between her and Natasha. His jaw set, posture intimidating.

Margaret never considered him an ally, not really. She was quite sure they'd cut each other's throat if Father didn't disapprove of it. Until this moment, however, she didn't thought of him as an actual enemy.

„Traitor!” She hissed, clenching her fists.

Nomad turned his head slightly, never taking his eyes off Margaret.

„Take the orb and go.” He said to Natasha, who hesitated only a second before dashing up the stairs.

He readjusted the shield on his arm, but made no move toward Margaret. Only watched her. She hated him even more that moment, for being so stoic while she fumed.

„I won't let him destroy the world.”

Unlike Thanos, who spoke of his plans as if they were an inevitable, blessed truth, Nomad sounded determined and vengeful. His words were a promise built of poison. And like poison he worked methodically, silently, with no rush for the effect that would come in the end anyway.

„Father is going to heal this wretched world.” She tilted her chin defiantly.

„The way he healed Earth?” Nomad snorted. „The way he _healed_ us?”

Margaret felt her body tense up. Conditioned fear rippled through her limbs at the memory of torture she worked hard to lock in the darkest corners of her mind, never the be reminded of.

„Shut up!” She yelled.

Swiftly, she rolled and went for her staff, picking it up with ease then jumping on the rock and off of it with a twist.

Margaret's staff and Nomad's shield collided with brutal force. The sound of clash echoed through the meadow. Friction of metal produced a fan of sparks which lit the murky space, before fading in a puddle.

They both wielded vibranium. The only remnants of rarest metal in the universe.

Nomad pushed her away with the shield. Margaret balanced on her feet, staff held in both hands in front of her.

For a moment they stood apart, facing each other. Dark figures and glinting weapon in thistle hues.

Nomad opened his lips, perhaps to speak of things she did not want to listen. She's had enough of ideology beat into her. So Margaret attacked anew, before he uttered a word that could disarm her. Changing between one-hand combat and using the pole, she aimed for weakest points.

He met her punch for punch, blocking most of her moves. Then she maneuvered the pole between his legs as they moved, twisting it so it cut the balance off his left leg, forcing him to bend it. With a wicked move Margaret pushed the staff up, right into his crotch.

Hearing Nomad grunt in pain was rewarding. Margaret swiftly rounded him, pulling the staff horizontally under his chin. She tried to choke him while he was kneeling on the ground.

In a sharp move, he bent forward, throwing Margaret over his shoulder.

She was quick to turn over, pulling herself up on her hands and knees. Nomad slammed the shield into her face, knocking her down.

Margaret rolled away. She felt blood trickling over her lips and chin. Her head buzzed. Nothing that would hold her down.

With some difficulty, she stood up. She tightened her grip on the pole and charged at him again. Sparks flared each time her staff grazed edges of the shield.

She slid the serrated end across Nomad's shield and and under it, when he pulled it in the opposite direction, cutting his thigh. He cursed.

Suddenly, pain blazed through her back. A sting drilling through her left shoulder, spreading over her back and limbs. Margaret felt her muscles going limp. She tried clenching her fingers on the staff, but it slipped from her grasp.

Her legs gave out and she fell down. Nomad's heavy boots appeared in her line of vision before everything went black.


	4. Chapter 4

Metallic taste filled her mouth, coating her tongue. It was her own blood. Margaret swallowed. Then again, until the flavor returned to bland nothing.

Unsure of how long she was unconscious, Margaret opened her eyes slowly, cautious of possible bright lights blinding her. There were none. Only barely lit up dome of steel above her which she recognized as the inside of a spacecraft. Not hers.

She was on a bench. Straps across her chest linked her to the wall, keeping her in place. Not only for safety purposes, she knew.

Her hands were bound in front of her. Not particularly tight, yet she couldn't pull them apart. She moved her arms up to take a closer look at the shackles they put her in. They were formed in a shape of an infinity symbol around her wrists. And they seemed to be alive.

Particles of silver, turning into red, moved in sync with her smallest move. They adjusted and held tightly however she twisted her hands.

_Nanotechnology._ Smart.

Keeping her alive wasn't.

It made no sense to her. As an enemy, she should've been killed. Disposed off, remorselessly. Especially since Nomad knew all about Thanos' plans and methods, so Margaret wasn't useful in any way.

She'd kill Nomad.

If given a chance she wouldn't hesitate. Or so she told herself. After all, she spent years trying to get the upper hand when sparring with him, enjoying if anyone else managed to hurt him. Now, when he proved to be a traitor, she had even less doubts.

She wondered how Thanos' handles this truth once he finds out. A part of her wished to see his face when it happens. To see the disbelief and anger after learning his favorite, attentively groomed blade stabbed him in the back.

Margaret rolled her shoulders and tiwsted her head from side to side to get rid of stagnation tension. Then she looked around, assessing her surroundings and looking for potential advantages.

Her eyes landed on a girl sitting freely on the other side.

Gamora instantly slid from her seat and trotted over to Margaret. Without a word she climbed onto the bench beside her.

She reached her small hands to Margaret's bonds, trying to find a way to undo them. She frowned, frustrated, as the particles just slipped from between her fingers, stubbornly holding together.

Margaret stared at the girl, confused.

Logic said Gamora should keep away from her, stay close to those who saved her from being returned to Maw and his tortures. Margaret showed no mercy when dragging Gamora back. The girl shouldn't show any towards her.

„It won't work, kid.”

They both looked up when the redhead entered. The mask was gone from her face. A pretty face, with delicate lines and lush lips. Corner of her mouth tilted slightly in amusement as she glanced Gamora's way.

Gamora drew her hands back, but stayed beside Margaret. She didn't seem to be scared of Natasha. More likely wary. Which was good, considering chaotic turn of events in the last few days.

Natasha gave Margaret a once over then turned. She opened a narrow panel in the wall and flipped a thin screen towards her. She tapped on it, flipped it back, closed the panel. Then did a similar round of actions on another panel.

Suddenly, she stopped.

She turned around and marched straight toward Gamora.

Margaret felt herself tensing. Instincts told her to prepare for a fight, even though she wasn't the target at the moment. She pulled her elbows in and clenched her fists. Her eyes stayed on Natasha the whole time as she approached the girl.

„You keep looking at my hands.” Natasha stopped in front of Gamora.

The girl looked up at her, but didn't flinch or pull back in fear.

„I have an inkling it's because of these-” Natasha waved her fingers. Light glinted in her black-painted fingernails to which Gamora's attention had been drawn.

Gamora nodded, wordlessly.

Natasha's lips curved in a smile. She reached into one of her pockets and fished out a small bottle of black polish. She dropped it into Gamora's hand.

Margaret's gaze shifted to the round-bellied bottle. Shimmering liquid within it sparked a violent urge to vomit.

She felt cold sweat on the back of her neck. Echoes of her own scream pounded in her head.

Margaret had painted her nails once.

„_What is this for?” _

_Thanos' voice was calm. Impassive. He merely looked at her hands, seemingly uninterested in the actual reason a fifteen year old girl had for something so meaningless. _

_Margaret couldn't reply right away, unsure of her true motives. They were on Ceris, accompanying Maw on his business (details of which they weren't told). The place they were meeting at had shelves full of bottles and powders. Colourful and shiny. Like most inhabitants of the planet. _

_She spotted a bottle of red varnish. Deep, rich colour which filled her with the strangest longing. _

_She stole it. _

_Her hands shook when she painted her nails, but when it was done it felt... right. She liked it very much. _

„_I think-” Margaret said, studying her fingers- „My mother painted her nails red.”_

_Father said nothing to that. Not even a hum. Later that evening, however, Margaret was brought to Maw's torture chamber._

Her fingers trembled at the memory and she clenched her fists tighter, to the point of pain. It was barely an itch compared to what she felt when Maw worked on her.

He ripped each of her nails. Slowly, so the agony stretched. Blood dripped from her fingers, creating small, dark pools on the floor. Her whole hands hurt, arms too. She vomited twice.

It's the only red she could get, Maw had said. The only red that mattered, because it came from the Father.

Margaret realized the mistake she made was not because of the varnish, but the memory she associated with it. There could be no memories on Sanctuary, not of the time before Thanos took her into his care.

For the two painful years it took for her nails to grow back, Margaret worked hard on forgetting everything that was before.

Holding onto the past made no sense anyway, she told herself – for her future was decided by Thanos.

She sat stiff, her eyes unfocused, while Gamora attempted to paint one of her hands. She barely registered little huffing sounds the girl made, or the specific smell of the polish. She didn't react even when Nomad came in.

He glanced Natasha's way then looked at Margaret and stopped in his tracks.

He studied her pale face. Margaret's distracted gaze was more than unusual. Especially in captivity, she ought to be alert of her surroundings. Cunning as she was, any slip in their defences would become her open window.

Smell of varnish directed Nomad's attention to a little bottle in Gamora's hands. Cold washed over him, his hands clenched into fists.

„It's going to be a long journey, why don't you get the kid something to eat?” He said to Natasha who, in return, arched one of her eyebrows.

She looked from him to Margaret, then rolled her eyes.

„Come on, pickle.” Natasha motioned for Gamora to join her. „Let's get some sugar into you. That should be fun.”

Bottle of polish still in her hand, Gamora slid off the bench and walked out with Natasha. Before exiting, she looked over her shoulder at Margaret who still stayed unmoved. As did Nomad.

She hesitated until Natasha put a hand on her shoulder and lead her through the automatic door.

Silence filled the space. For a long moment Nomad observed Margaret, but she didn't even stir. He took a step towards her, then another. No sign of her senses registering someone else's presence.

When he reached for her hands she shivered, as if woken from a dream.

Nomad was seemingly taking a close look at her bindings, yet his fingers stayed more on her hands than wrists, tracing slow, gentle patterns on her skin. For a reason Margaret could not explain, she didn't pull back right away.

It was a strange sensation, but not a bad one.

He didn't grip her hands harshly, didn't crush her fingers, or tighten her bonds. Margaret's fingers, which felt cold and numb, tingled with warmth under his touch. Vision of blood dripping from her fingertips slowly dispersed.

Neither looked at the other. Both focused on their clasped hands.

Nomad's were bigger, with dips below protruding knuckles. Seams on his fingerless gloves were ragged, some threads stained with blood so profoundly it was impossible to wash it out. Against his, Margaret's digits seemed much smaller. Her fingertips were round and childish, with dirt under her short fingernails.

„Why am I still alive?” Margaret frowned.

„Enough Terran lives were wasted because of Thanos.” Nomad's voice was somber, yet impassionate.

The outrage which should carry with the genocide laid flat and rusty, like a rubble overgrown with plants that becomes a part of a landscape.

„Oh, spare me.” She rolled her eyes and withdrew her hands from his grasp. „We may come from Earth, but neither of us is much of a Terran anymore. Not that it's a loss.”

He didn't argue. Margaret appreciated he wasn't trying to feed her bullshit. Even if his motives were circling aroung avenging the Earth, there were few human traits left in him. Spite was leading, apparently.

„Besides-” she leaned back and cocked her head to the side- „Not long ago you were willing to let Maw hurt a child that went to you in search of safety. I don't believe you value my life higher.”

„No. I don't.” He replied. „I also don't provide safety. You're alive Margaret, not safe.”

She waited until he turned his back to her to frown and grit her teeth. She glared daggers at him as he walked out.

Nomad never displayed a predilection for torture, his kills were fast and in a way merciful, so she wasn't afraid of the threat on his side. However, a possibility of being sentenced to pain couldn't be ruled out completely. Margaret suspected there were enough people on Earth eager to hurt a member of the Black Order.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I planned for 12 chapters, but the way this is all going I'm afraid there's going to be more. I hope not to stretch it too much, though I've decided a few details need to be added.


	5. Chapter 5

Soft ripples on the lake's surface broke the sun's reflection into a sheet of sparkles, making Gamora gasp in awe.

Margaret made no sound, but she absorbed the view with equal fascination.

Grass here had a darker shade, sprinkled with white and yellow heads of small flowers scattered around. Smell of water and forest after the rain wrapped around her like a ghostly memory. Instead of calming her, it alerted her instincts to hide any emotion she felt at the sight. A mask of stone on her face, without a trace of crack which could show weakness.

Compound they landed at was a complex of clean lines, sunlit glass and pale-grey walls. All surrounded by thriving nature.

Rubble and heavy clouds of dust which filled Margaret's last memories of Earth were gone. No sign of collapsed buildings, no holes in the streets, or bodies strewn across. She remembered flakes of rendering floating around her. Warm drizzle sprinkling her face that turned out to be blood.

Now she felt only sunny warmth caressing her cheeks.

Everything looked peaceful. In balance.

Wasn't it exactly how Father planned it to be?

She should throw it in Nomad's face. Point out the good outcome and watch his irrational anger rise.

Somehow, she couldn't.

Suddenly Margaret felt breathless. Her chest hollowed, ribcage clenched into a claw that squeezed her heart tightly. It pounded faster and faster, rushing waves of cold through her body.

She curled her hands into fists, purposely digging her nails into her own flesh to cause pain. The sting helped her regain focus.

When Nomad pushed her forward her haze cleared out further.

With a clenched jaw, Margaret followed Natasha and Gamora who were walking in front of her. Nomad stayed at her back, undoubtedly to provide security in case she tried to run or attack. For her bound hands were merely a slight disadvantage in a fight.

Nomad took away her staff, she saw its glint when he attached it to the back of his utility belt. Then he covered it with the shield on his back. There was no sneaky way of getting it back.

„That's not how I imagined the stone to look like.” A man with a mohawk waited for them at the end of the landing stripe.

He had his arms crossed over his chest, displaying a wild array of colourful tattoos. He had one on the side of his scalp, too. He looked down at Gamora then back to Natasha, grinning. Natasha rolled her eyes.

„Who's that?” He titled his head, switching his attention to Margaret. She didn't seem to be reciprocating his interest, her gaze blank and focused forward.

„Black Order.” Natasha replied, passing him and heading for the main building. She carried a locked case containing the orb with the stone.

„Really?” He arched his brows. He eyed Margaret up and down then glanced over her shoulder at Nomad. „She's one of yours? Doesn't look that scary.”

„Barton, don't-” Nomad warned, but it was already too late.

Margaret swung her leg high. Barton instinctively ducked down. She used his bent knee, then his shoulder, like stairs – climbing him swiftly. She twisted above him and was about to wrap her bound arms around his neck when Nomad pushed between them.

He sneaked his arm across her chest and up, squeezing Margaret's throat with his hand. He jabbed fingers of his other hand into her thigh where a still fresh, deep gash was healing. Margaret yelped in pain. Her hold on Clint loosened instantly.

„The fuck, man?!” Barton was back on his feet.

„Scary enough for you now?” Nomad asked, releasing Margaret's throat.

He gripped her arm and pulled her with him toward the headquarters. His fingers were clenched harshly on her arm, leaving bruises. Margaret's thigh was pulsing with pain. She felt her suit sticking to her skin where Nomad tore her wound open again.

There weren't many people in the building they lead her into. Most wore darkgrey suits with a simple emblem on the shoulder. Some were in casual attire. Surprisingly, no one had a gun. And no one paid them much attention.

They led her through a labyrinth of corridors and automatic doors, down the stairs and through an underground hall. The further they went the fewer people passed them. Until there was only the sound of their own footsteps echoing.

It was behind a heavy door that she heard voices again. The door slid open only after Natasha put her hand on a panel and provided a verbal password. Margaret assumed the door had triple identity-focused access: palm scan, voice recognition, individual password. Hard to break.

The space they entered was a stark contrast to the impersonal, utilitarian style of the compound. Glass walls intertwined with wood and soft light, creating a warm and welcoming atmosphere. Desks and computers were visible through the glass panels, but there were also comfortable looking sofas. And pictures. And plants.

Random belongings were scattered around in each room they passed – a leather jacket on the back of a chair, four big mugs on top of piles of files, a jar of candies in the corner.

On Sanctuary nothing was ever out of place. Even if anything fell on the floor scurmorpha quickly took care of it. Thanos paid little to no mind to mess, they just didn't have much belongings which could take space outside of their small quarters.

Nomad's fingers clenched around Margaret's arm tighter when they entered a spacious room.

At first, when Natasha walked in, people inside continued their conversation. Tone of their voices was light, unthreatening. When Margaret and Nomad followed after her, however, the room went silent.

Gamora stopped in her tracks. Margaret almost stumbled into her.

„That's more baggage than we expected to see.” A man standing in the middle of the room cocked his head to the side. His gaze focused on Gamora.

He was quite short and had ridiculously (in Margaret's opinion) trimmed facial hair, and a stance of a cheeky teenager ready to poke and rebel just for fun.

„Banner-” he said- „you never mentioned having any extraterrestrial romances.”

There was no response to his comment, but one of the other men in the room just shook his head slightly, all the while staring at Gamora in equal interest.

Margaret quickly looked around. Four people. Seven with Nomad, Natasha and that Barton guy. Not all of them looked like it, but she assumed most, if not all of them were skilled in combat. Which decreased her chances against them.

Nomad's presence cleared them down to zero. At least until she comes up with a back-stabbing plan, or finds the weakest link.

The goatee man in the middle of the room appeared healthy, so she wouldn't take his lanky form as a misleading factor in assessing his skills. Especially considering the blue glow visible through his worn out T-shirt which suggested he might be a humanoid machine. Those tended to be relentless.

Another man stood far on the side, the one they addressed as Banner. He clutched some papers in his hand in what might be a sign of fear, or discomfort. The longer she watched him, however, the more it reminded her of a tension that comes along with keeping oneself in check. Banner seemed harmless, but perhaps he carried danger with him.

It undoubtedly accompanied the thrid man. Sprawled on a couch, barefoot, with a cup in his hands. He didn't even stir when they walked in. To an unskilled eye he wouldn't appear a threat, not even with the metal prosthetic he had for a left arm.

But Margaret knew and fought men like him. He remained still, seemingly relaxed, but he already scanned her head to toes and assessed what she could do in her current state. His fingers stilled on the cup, his breath evened out. That man was dangerous.

Who truly looked harmless, at least for now, was a girl sitting cross-legged on the floor. Hair pulled into a ponytail, an oversized sweater, lots of glinting necklaces. She looked at Margaret in surprise, her eyes big and innocent as those of a child. Her shoulders slumped and she nervously hid her palms in the sleeves of her sweater.

Margaret frowned. The girl looked innocuous. Then again it made no sense for her to be in a semi-military compound among these people.

„Her name's Gamora.” Nomad said, tugging Gamora to stand by his side. The way he spoke sounded like a warning.

Margaret glanced at him. Since they landed he seemed more angry than she ever saw him. A novelty in his usual emotionless way of being.

She and Gamora complicated his plans, but for some reason she doubted it's the sole cause for his irritation. It had to be this place. Margaret felt a growing itching under her own skin, a restlessness with no way to sate.

Gutting someone could help, she thought.

Pulsing pain in her thigh became a useful distraction to the clenching in her chest, but it was also a strain. Muscles in her leg spasmed. She felt on the verge of tumbling, but forced her body to stay still. She could endure worse conditions.

With a sigh, Nomad pushed her down into an armchair. It was the softest, most comfortable she ever had a chance to sit in. It made her uneasy. She stretched out her wounded leg, but kept herself from leaning back.

Nomad didn't relax either. He stood in place. Watchful, as always. For others it may seem he was keeping an eye on a dangerous prisoner, but Margaret knew him enough to recognize that unyielding distrust honed under Thanos' sweet care.

He was suspicious of anyone, anytime. His new _friends_ included.

Which made Margaret ponder on the nature of the bonds between Nomad and these Terrans. With how at ease they were around him, it suggested something stronger than just fighting for a common cause. While forging an alliance against the same enemy proved to tighten the bonds – Margaret saw those loyalties herself when she killed whole units – deeper familiarity was something sparse.

She wondered if they mistaken Nomad's dedication to their cause as friendship. Were they really that naive?

„And this is?” Attention switched to Margaret. Everyone's eyes focused on her, though with much less interest and more hostility than Gamora evoked.

„One of his kind.” Barton grumbled, shooting her a glare as he crossed the space to hop on a couch on the opposite site of the room. „Rabid Black Order.”

Margaret arched a brow, mildly amused, but said nothing.

„Judging by the cuffs I assume she's not on our side.” Banner tilted his head. His hands shook slightly, but he quickly got the trembling under control.

„She kicked our asses when we took the stone.” Natasha's voice held no acrimony. No admiration either, though something told Margaret this admission was a form of praise in the warrior's lips.

„Not effectively enough.” The man on the couch said, looking at Nomad with something akin to a non-verbal admonition.

„Always so caring, James.” Natasha snorted.

A smile curved her lips for a split of a second then her face turned unreadable again. She approached the man with the goatee and handed him the suitcase containing the orb.

„So. The power stone...” He paused then grinned. „Jarvis, play I've Got The Power.”

„Tony, no!” Some shouted, others rolled their eyes.

„Come on!” He argued. „You wouldn't let me play anything when we secured the mind stone. At least let me have this one.”

Margaret instantly perked up. She stared at them – a bunch of people who at the moment seemed the least competent to be holding any of the Infinity Stones, but who apparently obtained two already. This had to be some wile. A devious plan to trick her, to trick Father.

She leaned forward, trying to catch anything worthy from the scraps of ridiculous argument that erupted. It mostly centered around Tony's dubious taste and lack of seriousness.

Irritated with ongoing nonsense, Margaret turned to Nomad.

„They have the mind stone?!”

Silence slashed off all noise like a sharp guillotine.

They turned as one, some mouths hanging open in mid of a sentence. All eyes landed on her.

James sat up swiftly, without spilling a single drop of his coffee. He leaned forward, bracing elbows on his knees. Neutral facade disappeared, showing a true surprise on his face. It was a mind-spinning experience to see guarded suspicion in a flash changing into a kind of softness Margaret never saw. At least not addressed at her.

„Holy shit!” He exclaimed, a hint of childish excitement in his voice. „You're British!”

Margaret frowned. She saw no reason for this kind of interest. Instead of watching her warily when she was presented as a deadly assassin, they were more taken with a place of her birth. It made no sense.

„Irrelevant.” She said.

„Oh no, no!” Tony waved a finger at her. He too seemed to be excited with the revelation. „This is very much relevant. Existence of an intergalactic killer Mary Poppins is very relevant. And this thug-” he pointed at Nomad- „kept it all to himself.”

For his part, Nomad looked annoyed. And for the first time Margaret had no trouble decoding that. However, she still couldn't understand why this place brought out his emotions so easily. Though, she suspected, these people were annoying enough to provoke even a stone cold son of a bitch like Nomad.

„It _is_ irrelevant.” Nomad took a step forward, placing himself in front of Margaret so that everyone had to look at him. „Terran or not, she's a prisoner. A dangerous one. I'm going to place her in the pit cells.”

Though he stood still, wielding no weapon in his hands, everything about him in that moment screamed danger. Both threat and a challenge if anyone dared to charge.

James stood up, cup of coffee still in his hand. He walked unhurriedly over to Nomad. He glanced over Nomad's shoulder at Margaret, then looked him in the eye.

„A dangerous one.” He repeated Nomad's words and took a sip of coffee. „Yet she's the very first you kept alive.”

„Fuck off, Buck.” Nomad hissed, barely audible to anyone beside the two of them.

James grinned smugly and took another sip. A muscle in Nomad's jaw twitched, so did his fingers. Instead of slamming his fist through James's skull, which it looked like he wanted to, he grabbed Margaret's arm and yanked her up on her feet.

He led her out through the same door they got in, but then turned into a narrow corridor. At the end of it was an elevator. Nomad laid his hand on the scanner.

„No.” He growled aloud and the elevator door slid open.

„No?” Margaret turned to him once they got inside. „That's your personal password? Seriously?”

Nomad stared ahead. As much as he tried to keep his face blank, it was clear he was fuming. Margaret, to her own surprise, enjoyed it for different reasons than expected. She found it a desired change in his indifferent behavior. Finally she got a glimpse into his real persona, not a facade forged by Thanos.

When the elevator stopped they walked out into a dark passage. Lights flickered on as they moved, but there wasn't much to be seen. Walls here were made from thick concrete, maybe enhanced with other materials too. There were no windows.

They stopped in front of a door that seemed to be made of a live metal – tiny particles constantly moving around in a sizzling field. It was more than nanotechnology, included substances Margaret couldn't recognize right away.

Nomad tapped something on the door and the particles parted like a curtain.

He uncuffed her then forcefully pushed Margaret forward.

The cell was dark, with only two rows of small lights along the ceiling. On the left a mattress was sunk into a hole in the floor, with no pillow or blankets. On the right there was a shower stall – no glass, no fixtures, completely open. The only privacy was a toilet in a corner, separated from the rest by a curved wall.

Margaret looked around, checking for hooks or force fields on which she expected to be hung. Nothing of the sort was in sight.

A single, pulsing red light on a wall indicated a hidden element. She pressed the flickering button. Two metal panels slid from the wall, one higher than the other. She realized they were meant to be used as a table and a bench to sit on.

She turned around. The door was closed.

From this side it looked completely solid. Curious, she walked over to it. No particles were moving anymore, the surface of it was smooth, cold to the touch. There were no hinges, no lock, not even a single screw which she could loosen.

„Pit cell. Quite fitting.” She snorted.

Tired and wounded, she had little chance to form a good plan of proceeding. Her leg hurt more than it did right post fight on Sakaar and she had barely any strenght left to hold herself upright in the shower.

So she knelt down and crawled onto the mattress.


	6. Chapter 6

Despite wounds and fatigue Margaret's body functioned on high alert. It was something one learned early on in training. To always be aware of your surroundings, recognize sounds and changes in the air. After years it became a skill you couldn't simply turn off. Even if she had a chance to enjoy a day or two of unusual peace, Margaret's instincts never allowed her a truly deep, safe sleep.

She woke up the instant she sensed a change in the cell. Not much of a noise, but a waft of a scent that wasn't present previously.

Opening her eyes, Margaret pulled herself into a sitting position. Her injured leg felt too stiff to jump into a stance.

Her gaze landed on Nomad's huge form standing by the entrance. Already closed, of course.

He had a tray in his hands. A cup of steaming liquid, something in a brown rustling paper, also a few items that looked like taken from a medical kit.

„Get up.” He barked at her and walked further inside.

He pushed the button on the wall. A table and a bench extended fully before Margaret got herself up. The cell had only a mattress, but it was surprisingly comfortable, if not too soft. There were no pillows or blankets, but as she realized throughout the night they weren't much needed. Temperature in the room was kept on a pleasantly warm level, no draughts chilled her body.

Margaret clenched her teeth while walking, refusing to limp and show how much her leg was out of commission for the moment.

She sat down on the bench and glared at Nomad. He didn't seem bothered by it. This too angered Margaret most of the time – how he ignored her presence, treating it as if she were merely a meaningless part of his environment.

„Eat.” It wasn't an order this time, but a single word spoken surprisingly quietly.

He put a cup and a small package in front of her.

She peeked into the cup, expecting some hot water with whatever herbs they brewed around here. Instead she got a whiff of something more substantial, appetizing. It had a deep orange color, seemed thicker than any tea.

A soup.

It reminded Margaret of childhood. The forgotten one.

She pushed the cup aside, for now. Instead, she reached for the package in a brown paper that made awfully lot of noise when unwrapping it. Inside were two halves of a sandwich. A little burnt, but not inedible.

Figuring if they wanted her dead they'd already get it done, no point in poisoning her, Margaret took a huge bite. Gooey strings of filling stretched between her lips and the remaining sandwich before popping free.

Margaret's eyes widened.

The texture took her by surprise, the flavor completely knocked her down. Warmth spread through her body at once. Hastily, she took another bite.

Nomad waited silently until she finished. The soup she at first pushed aside disappeared in a few gulps, as well. By the time she scarfed it all down, Margaret's usually pale face pinked up.

„Show me the wound.” Nomad tapped her leg with a finger.

She eyed him suspiciously, but unzipped her suit and shimmied out of it. She sat down on the bench, twisting slightly onto her uninjured side. Though left only in a thin undershirt and basic underwear, she didn't feel uneasy so exposed in front of Nomad.

His complete lack of interest the main reason for Margaret's comfort.

Nomad crouched in front of her, lifting her leg and propping it against his thigh. From the medical supplies he picked a bottle and sprayed a cool, stinging substance all over her wound.

„Don't you have medical staff here?” Margaret asked, watching him dab a gauze in purple liquid.

„We do.” He replied, methodically applying ointment along the gash. „But I wouldn't trust you not to kill anyone sent here to patch you up.”

„Smart.” She shrugged and leaned back.

The wall was cold and coarse against her skin. A sensation she found most welcome as Nomad's unusually gentle treatment stirred a disturbingly good feeling in her chest. He didn't caress her, none of his touches lingered too long on her skin, yet there was something soothing in his unhurried, attentive moves.

He seemed less tense. Annoyance, bordering on losing his patience, which he displayed the previous day was gone. Instead she got that blank, unmoved monolith.

He had to wind down somehow.

His head was bowed, his attention on a nasty cut scarring Margaret's leg. Strands of hair fell across his forehead, she saw him tucking it aside a few times. Futily. She noticed he was less grimy and unkempt, even his beard looked trimmed. He definitely took a shower. A thorough one.

Margaret could use one too. With her wounded leg she wouldn't be able to take a long one, it meant too much strain. Unless there was someone to help her. Wash her back, or something.

She titled her head to the side, studying Nomad's profile with renewed interest.

„Do you and Natasha fuck?” She asked.

Mostly because she wanted to vex him. _Mostly_.

He didn't respond. Didn't even flinch or falter in his task of stitching her wound with thin stripes. He pulled sides of the cut as close as possible, pinching her skin between his thumb and forefinger, then sealed it. He kept on repeating the move along the gash.

„That James guy then?” Margaret prodded, but he didn't rise to the bait.

With a little sigh, Nomad finished tending her injury. He wiped remnants of blood from her skin then slid her leg off his thigh and stood up. He picked up his supplies and put them back on the tray.

„What do you want Margaret?” Nomad crossed arms over his chest and looked down at her.

He towered over her. With his broad shoulders and thick arms, and his nearly full gear on, sans the shield. While she was half-undressed, injured, smaller than him. Yet somehow she wasn't scared.

Not of him, anyway. Not at this moment.

What did she want, though? All answers that itched to roll out on her tongue were impossible to voice aloud.

„I could use some good fucking.” She said instead, sitting up and pushing her chest forward.

Nomad's gaze didn't drop from her face, not even for a split of a second. He stayed quiet for a long moment, as if considering her proposition like a business bargain.

She was bluffing, he had to know that. Margaret hadn't considered her response if he said yes.

„I'm afraid you'll have to rely on self-service.” Nomad replied.

He gathered used tools and empty wrappings on the tray then turned his back to Margaret and walked out.

„You're an ass, Nomad!” She yelled after him.

Frustration grazed at her skin from the inside. She didn't want to fuck, not really. With her leg it would do more damage than bring pleasure. Plus, using it as a means to distract or get the upper hand wouldn't work. Not with so many disadvantages.

Lack of desired response from him, however, annoyed Margaret. No button she pushed ever worked on him.

Once outside, he stopped for a second. His back still to her.

„My name is Steve.”

Entrance closed, leaving Margaret with the echo of his words.

She frowned. Less at his words, more at the way her body responded to it. Her eyes stung with sudden wetness. Cold wave washed over her half naked form.

She reached for her suit, but her hands shook so hard she barely managed to slip a leg in.

Remembering his birth name wasn't that meaningful. Margaret's name was the one she got at birth and used to this day. But Nomad proved to remember more of his Terran life. He clung to remnants of it, built a net of bonds, cherished that which Margaret was ripped of.

For years she believed they're alike in their history, but they couldn't be more different.

* * *

On the Sanctuary she rarely got a chance to get a full night sleep, much less to simply rest. So being locked in with nothing to do was driving her mad. Not lack of activity itself, but being left with her thoughts. Especially after the morning encounter with Nomad.

She took a shower. A short one, after which her leg throbbed like a bitch. She decided against putting on a suit and dropped onto the mattress in her undershirt and underwear only.

For a moment she dozed off. Unfortunately, Margaret's brain was trained to turn its gears nearly all the time, so no sleep saved her from thoughts ramming inside her skull. Angry and painful ones.

She stared at the grey ceiling, battling tears.

When the door liquified open and Nomad walked in, Margaret welcomed that intrusion. It disrupted her chaotic thoughts, giving her an aim to focus on.

Again, he carried a tray. This time, however, he wasn't alone.

Margaret frowned seeing Gamora at his side.

The girl was wearing new clothes, ones that weren't meant for combat training and harsh conditions. They were colorful and soft, made Gamora look like an innocent kid that she was, not a future assassin.

„She wanted to see you.” Nomad said, as if reading Margaret's mind.

Like in the morning, he pushed the button on the wall and waited for the table to detract. He placed the tray on it and moved to the side, waiting for Margaret.

Standing up this time was slightly easier. Walking wasn't. A deep crease formed on Nomad's forehead as he watched her wobble over to the bench.

„We got you some clothes.” Gamora put a small pile of folded clothes on the bench next to Margaret.

„Prison suit?” Margaret snorted.

Neither Nomad nor Gamora laughed with her. Moreover, they both frowned. As if wordlessly scolding her, though she had no understanding for what. After all, she was a prisoner. Even if their cells were higher standard than the ones on Kyln.

She rolled her eyes and reached for the tray. She hoped for that gooey-stuffed sandwich from the morning, but there was only a bowl with a lid. When she took the lid off a cloud of steam puffed out. She couldn't recognize any of the ingredients, but they were colorful and smelled really tempting.

Engrossed with her meal, Margaret registered Nomad leaving with less than mild interest.

Gamora stayed. She climbed onto the bench beside Margaret.

„There are other kids here, you know?” She said. „Morgan, Mike and Jin.”

„So why aren't you with them now?” Margaret asked in a bored tone, not even looking her way.

Gamora clearly had poor self-preservation instinct, despite what she's shown previously with her brave, sneaky escape. All logic suggested she should be building a trust net within that new environment which provided her safety, cutting all ties to murderers who were set on bringing only pain and blood into her life.

„They have classes.” Gamora's nose scrunched in a displeasure.

She hadn't yet figured out if classes was perhaps a local word for combat training, though her newly acquired friends spoke of it without much excitement, or fear.

Margaret nodded, still more interested in her food than anything else. She was nearly done with the whole dish when she glanced at Gamora. The girl was staring at her, swinging her legs back and forth.

It took Margaret a second to realize _she _wasn't the object of Gamora's attention.

Mouth full of food, Margaret put her spoon down and reluctantly slid the pot toward Gamora. There wasn't much left, but hearty scraps were satisfying enough judging by how eagerly the kid stuffed her cheeks.

Gamora was licking the spoon clean when Nomad walked in. His brows arched, gaze moving from the girl to Margaret and back. A flash of surprise which quickly morphed into his usual indifference.

He dropped a file on the table. A yellow, paper folder with printed pages and photos inside. It's archaic form surprised Margaret. Then again, giving her a pad, or any computerized data holder, could provide her with ways to communicate with the Black Order.

She wasn't sure, however, if precaution was the only reason Nomad brought her a paper version. Perhaps he was a sentimental fool.

Margaret eyed the folder, but didn't reach for it. Wariness clenched her fingers into a fist.

„What's that?” She asked, ready to laugh in his face if he spoke of Thanos' atrocities.

For someone who condemned their Father's ways, Nomad was the most efficient killer with blood of thousands on his own hands.

„Your file.”

His reply punched the air out of her chest. Margaret blanched, though she kept her body still and her face stone. Her fists tightened.

With all the power she had, Margaret forced herself not to even glance at the folder. She held Nomad's gaze.

Corners of his mouth twitched, one eyebrow quirked. The bastard was challenging her.

That itself was motivating enough to ignore a pull inside her chest which tempted her to peek inside the file. Slowly, Margaret unclenched her fists, finger by finger. Her shoulders dropped, muscles relaxing.

„Not interested.” She waved her hand dismissively.

Nomad just shrugged. He picked the empty pot and motioned for Gamora to follow him. They left without a word. Only Gamora looked over her shoulder right before exiting.

Margaret quickly rose up and moved to the bed, adamant on pretending the file disappeared. She managed not to glance at it, despite the unnerving itching in her fingertips to reach for it.

She battled with herself for hours. Voices of cold disdain against reasoning that anything included in the file can't change her mindset anyway. Whatever sappy story they put in there, it didn't matter. Nothing would break her loyalty to Father and his great plan.

When Nomad brought supper she slid the file along with an empty plate for him to take away.

He took the dishes, left the folder. _Asshole_.

Back on the bed, Margaret lied stiff, staring at the dimmed lights. Soon they would turn off completely, meaning nighttime set in. If she were to move, a few motion sensor lights would switch on, so she stayed still to prolong much wanted darkness.

In the dark she couldn't see the file.

Unfortunately, her mind didn't fall for that illusion.

Thoughts ran back to the thin folder on the table. More than curiosity spurred them on. A deeper need, laced with fear and longing which Margaret hasn't felt for decades. A need so strong it hurt.

Margaret sat up in an abrupt move. Few dimmed lights flickered on.

With clenched teeth, she stood up. Marching toward the table, she kept telling herself nothing in the file could affect her. She'd be sating her curiosity only, then toss it back carelessly.

Later she'd look Nomad in the eye and tell him he's weak to value burnt remnants of pitiful life from before Thanos.

She picked up the folder and went back onto the bed. She sat cross-legged on the mattress and opened her file.

A birth certificate and a picture of a little girl – herself, she assumed. Margaret felt nothing staring at the photograph of a grinning, chubby girl with uneven fringe and a scratch on her cheek. There was no sense of recollection.

Data on the birth certificate brought no emotion either. Her parents names, place of birth, they meant nothing.

She flipped through next pages – school reports, some diplomas from meaningless competitions. Was this supposed to make her react? Poke at some deeply buried emotion which would turn her against Father? If so, they failed.

Turning the next page, her fingers tightened on the paper. Breath hitched in her lungs.

Attached to a coroner's report from an autopsy were two pictures. A bit torn and faded, but not damaged so severely not to recognize who's on it. A boy with similar features to hers. His hair lighter, eyes a shade of green, but his nose and lips were a copy of Margaret's own.

His smiling face on the first photograph was a stark contrast to the one beneath it. The boy's face on it was pale, his eyes closed. Side of his neck was covered in burn scars.

„Michael.” His name rolled out of Margaret's lips in a faint whisper.

They were outside when alien armies plowed the city. Michael was with his friends and she was annoying the heck out of them. When screaming and shots started, though, he grabbed her hand and pulled her with him.

Margaret remembered crying. She had been so terrified. So was Michael. But he didn't leave her behind, never let go of her hand as they ran.

Until a car they were passing blew up...

In a violent snap, she ripped the page and tossed it away.

Autopsy reports on her parents were beneath it. Her eyes caught bits of typed text - torn tendons, crushed bones and punctured internal organs.

She never got back to her home that fateful day. Maybe for the better, so she was spared the view of a collapsed building and broken bodies splayed on the street. Her last memory of her parents was of them alive, being disgustingly sweet on each other in the kitchen. Mother yelled after her not to annoy Michael too much, just as Margaret was running out the door.

Bile suddenly rose in Margaret's throat. Acidic taste filled her mouth. A spasm bent her body forward. Instead of retching, her mouth opened to let out a pathetic wail.

She tossed the file across the room with a yell, watched its contents spill all over the floor.

Her cheeks were wet, though she hasn't fully registered when she started crying. It was hard to focus on anything when her chest tightened. She couldn't breathe. Something pressed on her chest, forcing all air out of it.

She tried to inhale, but couldn't. Her blood pumped rapidly, filling Margaret's head with buzzing noise.

Her fingertips felt numb, prickling sensation spread further over her palms and up her arms. She clutched for something desperately, but there was nothing which could help her.

Something moved in a blur in her line of vision.

Nomad ran inside, dropping to his knees right beside her. Coughing on sobs and hyperventilating, her vision full of dark spots, Margaret didn't notice him enter. She barely registered someone was pulling her up.

Warmth engulfed her. Strong arms encircled her, trapping Margaret's own, trembling arms at her sides.

„Breathe with me.” He said, rearranging her body so that her chest pressed against his own.

He repeated it in a harsher tone, almost a yell to cut through her haze.

With a hand on her back, Nomad counted a steady rhythm – pushing with every inhale, releasing on exhale. Until sounds of choking turned into regular cries.


	7. Chapter 7

Though it was a rarity, Margaret had woken up next to someone on a few occasions in the past. It never meant anything, and it for sure never _felt_ significant in any way.

Spending the night in Nomad's arms stirred a strange sensation in her chest.

She woke up in the same position they dozed off – with her straddling him, his arms around her, and her face in the crook of his neck.

Sometime in the night, when her crying finally ceased, Margaret found herself looking at Nomad in confusion. But, despite any logic, she didn't pull away. It was too comforting to let go of it so quickly. A part of her feared she might crumble if Nomad unwrapped his arms from around her.

He didn't. He stayed unmoved the whole night, however uncomfortable it had to be.

His fingers felt warm splayed on her lower back. The whole of him was pleasantly warm. He smelled good, too.

When Margaret traced the line of his neck with her nose Nomad's grip tightened. Which wasn't unpleasant at all.

Slowly, she sat up. Her fingers kneaded the soft fabric of his T-shirt. It's the first time she saw Nomad in something other than a combat suit. Lighter color, looser fit, yet it didn't take much away of his dangerous demeanor.

Only he wasn't looking at her as if he'd love to snap her neck.

It wasn't pity, either. Rather an understanding.

She wondered if he had shattered the same way when remnants of Terran life were presented to him. Perhaps there was more rage on his side. Though Margaret never saw Nomad lose his cool, all the anger locked inside could spill out in a violent outburst if given a chance.

Was there anyone to comfort him when it happened?

Margaret frowned at that thought. It didn't matter. Just like it shouldn't matter how Nomad reacted to her pain against everything they were taught on the Sanctuary. If Maw saw them like this, he'd flay them.

She clenched her fingers tighter on the fabric of Nomad's T-shirt. His hands moved from the small of her back to rest on her thighs. It spread dimmed heat up her belly and over her chest. She wet her lips and dropped her gaze. It would be so easy to roll his shirt up and explore all of the hard muscles beneath it.

Never before had she entertained such a thought, not of him. Annoyance and repulsion kept a solid distance between them, effectively dousing any potential spark.

„You stayed.” Margaret looked up at him, distracting herself before her thoughts took a more heated track.

He said nothing, only gave a little nod. His gaze flicked to locks spilled around her shoulders, framing her face. Margaret always kept her hair in a tight braid, but a few strands got free in the past days. He wanted to tuck it behind her ear.

„Why?” She frowned, both in confusion and reacting to sudden pressure of his fingers against her thighs. „Why even rush here?”

„Why leave you to suffer?” Nomad answered with a question.

„Isn't that the point?” Margaret snorted. „I'm a Black Order member. There are whole systems that would pay great fortunes to get us and repay for all the pain we've caused. And it wouldn't be a quick, clean death.”

She prided herself for being a daughter of Thanos. More because it spoke of her skills than the number of kills, but in the end taken lives mattered more. On every planet. Earth included.

„Or is it a trick?” She pulled her hands back, crossing arms over her chest. „Provoke emotional pain, then soothe me. Only to repeat the process. Induce new mental ache.”

Cold wave washed over her, drowning any warmth previously acquired. Suspicion rose in a bitter bile, filling her stomach with nausea.

It was stupid of her to buy Nomad's care so easily when they both had learned from the best, most cruel manipulator. Physical tortures, though affecting their bodies, made less impact after decades on the Sanctuary. Going for psychological and emotional pain was a smarter option.

Nomad's face hardened. Cold glint flashed in his eyes and for a split of a second Margaret thought he'll rip her throat out.

His grip tightened, painfully this time. In a harsh move he pushed her off of him. Margaret toppled onto her side, hissing as the pain from her wounded leg shot through her.

„I'm not a good guy, but I'm not Maw!” He growled at her.

He was out the door before Margaret came up with a counterattack.

She pulled herself into a sitting position, leaning her head back against the concrete wall. She wanted to smash something. Preferably on Nomad's head. But that fucking cell lacked anything breakable.

Margaret considered picking up scattered files and ripping them all into pieces, but she felt revulsion at the mere thought of glimpsing any of it again.

She stewed in her thoughts for a few hours before someone came in. Margaret perked up.

It wasn't Nomad.

She recognized Natasha. There was another woman with her, in a white-grey suit and a thin tablet in her hands.

Natasha swiftly lifted her hand. Margaret reacted instantly at the gleam of a firearm, but too slow for an assassin to miss in such close proximity.

A quiet swishing resounded then she felt a sting in her belly. Not a bullet, she realized pressing both hands to the spot where it burned. No blood spilled through her fingers. But her consciousness rapidly faded, until Margaret's body dropped motionlessly.

When she came to it later, she was still in the cell. Rolling her wrists she checked for restraints, but there were none. Nothing seemed to be attached to her body, which brought a sigh of relief as well. Slowly, she lifted her head to look around.

No one was in the room. There was some food on the table and a new set of clothes in the corner of the mattress.

As Margaret pulled herself up into a standing position, she noticed that wounded leg bothered her significantly less. There was merely a slight tug when her muscles strained, followed by a dull throbbing that quickly dissipated.

She looked down at it. Instead of a bandage there was a thin, elastic material enveloping the whole length of the wound. It warmed up with her movement then pleasantly cooled. They must've done something for her injury.

Walking was much easier, too. And she didn't have to stiffen her leg when sitting down.

Though Margaret loved to harbor grudges, she understood why Natasha sedated her (however asshole the way she chose to do it was). Being treated by medical staff provided a great chance to break free. Margaret wasn't sure if she'd pass such an opportunity. Especially with how wound up she has been that morning.

Natasha was the one who brought her food the whole day. Neither of them spoke. To Margaret's every glare Natasha responded with an unimpressed look. A quirk of a brow, a tilt of head. A fucking smirk.

Next day was the same. And so on, for a full week.

Continued lack of Nomad's presence irked Margaret.

At first she took his disappearance as defeat (on his side, obviously). She had to struck a sensitive nerve, or he felt ashamed that his plan failed. For half of the first day Margaret considered it to be a step in the game – to provoke a certain reaction; to make her ask for him, or to dull her vigilance. Then he'd march right, ruining her equilibrium.

She crossed that off rather quickly. There wasn't enough kindness, or seduction on his part for this to work. Plus, it'd work better with a complete stranger.

Perhaps he just didn't want to see her. Which she could understand. If someone compared her to Maw, she'd gut them.

But Margaret wanted him to come. This need grew deeper with each passing day.

She just wasn't sure why.

One day, when Natasha brought supper, Gamora came as well. She had a coloring book with her (which she filled while Margaret ate) and a brush (which she wanted to use on Margaret).

With a roll of her eyes, Margaret sat cross-legged on the mattress, allowing Gamora to stand behind her. She gritted her teeth every time Gamora pulled on her hair too hard. After weeks of not taking any care of it, it was a miracle the girl could even untangle that mess.

„I'm not tugging to hard?” Gamora asked with genuine concern, brushing out a wide section of tangled hair.

„Nah.” Margaret replied, digging nails into her palm to stop herself from yelping.

„Mrs Pepper- that's Morgan's mom - braids our hair in the morning.” Gamora talked cheerfully as if it interested Margaret. „I want to ask her tomorrow to do mine into a crown. I think it's called a crown."

Margaret had a vague recollection of said updo. A wide braid wrapped around the head. Her mother used to adorn it with flowery pins. Little, blue flowers.

Distracted by a fleeting memory, Margaret didn't stop a hiss from escaping her lips when Gamora yanked on her hair too harshly.

„Sorry!”

For a second Gamora stopped, then started again. Gently.

She didn't rush. Each stroke was slow and thorough. Margaret sensed it was engrossing for Gamora. Lots of long hair to brush, as if she was her own big doll.

„Mrs Pepper or Mr Stark read us stories before bed. Every night.” Gamora said quietly.

There was something in her tone that alerted Margaret. A hint of sadness which she wanted to vengeance on anyone who caused it.

_We caused it._ Guilt crushed her chest heavily.

Undoubtedly, as many parents in many systems do, Gamora's parents told her stories before bed. Black Order robbed her of that. As they have done to many other children. As they have once done to Margaret, as well.

„You know what's my favorite story?” Gamora brightened suddenly, perhaps to brush aside the ache. Replace it with a scrap of a happy memory. „My mom used to tell me.”

„What is it about?” Margaret forced herself to ask, though her throat felt constricted.

She didn't remember any fairy tales from her own childhood. Only remnants of a story about a sea queen. Her father changed the end every time, she never learned which one is true.

„A tale of a brother and sister. Twins that shared one soul.” Gamora gently pushed a brushed-out part of hair over Margaret's shoulder and started working on the next section.

„Light years ago, there was a woman who wanted a child. She had no husband, no wife, but she always wished for a child. No medic on her planet was able to help her, so she turned to the old, forgotten gods. She prayed to the Celestials for a child. For years they ignored her, until one of them caved. Celestial blessed her with a soul, but in her womb it split into two. She gave birth to twins. A girl and a boy.”

Gamora had to know the tale by heart, her words flowed smoothly. Margaret found herself listening attentively.

„Mira and Voran. Sharing a soul made them special. Not only they were bonded, but they lured other souls. People always liked being in their presence, it made them happy. And with happiness went generosity and compliance. Whatever Mira or Voran asked for, people would give. They were ready to give up everything, their own lives included. The twins never abused that power.”

„But there were others who wanted to.” Margaret whispered.

Wasn't it always like that? There were those who craved power, of any kind. They knew how to get it, how to twist it, how to put it in pretty words.

„Yes.” Gamora nodded. „A Celestial power was desired, especially that kind of power. Mira and Voran became prey. The greed for their abilities brought so much destruction and pain to their planet, to their people. So they fled. They traveled through galaxies, until they've found an abandoned, lifeless planet. They thought to be safe there. And for a while they were. Not forever, unfortunately. Hunters found them.”

Gamora paused for a moment, changing her position behind Margaret to get more comfortable. She took the last section of Margaret's hair and continued brushing.

„Brother and sister never wanted to use their power, but it was the only way to save themselves and with that save other species from being abused by those who wanted to hone their power. In an act of despair, Mira sacrificed herself. With her death, her part of the sould connected with Voran's – becoming one full, powerful soul. Voran wiped out the hunters, but the loss of his beloved sister left a permanent scar on his heart. It is said that he stayed alone on that planet, forever mourning his sister. Whoever came to search for them, for their Celestial power, paid a horrible price.”

Gamora's hand stilled mid stroke, with the brush clutched in her fingers. Absentmindedly, Margaret reached over her shoulder and squeezed the little girl's hand with her own.

She didn't know why Gamora liked this particularly dark story so much. It didn't have a happy ending of any kind. The only good outcome of it being the safety of innocent people who'd be abused if anyone gained Mira and Voran's soul.

„I can bring some scrunchies tomorrow and braid your hair.” Gamora offered out of a sudden, shaking the both of them out of stupor. She combed her little fingers through Margaret's locks.

„Uh-” Margaret stuttered. She felt somewhat panicked at the thought of crooked braids and colorful bands in her hair.

Fortunately for her, Natasha's reappearance saved her from answering. Gamora took her belongings and bounced away, wishing Margaret good night. Margaret didn't reply. She didn't move from her spot on the mattress for a long time, until sleep tugged on her eyelids.

The following morning a new face came in.

In heavy boots, combat pants and a tad too tight T-shirt, James spared her a long, curious glance. There was a twinkle in his eyes, but she wouldn't fall for its softness. He wasn't assessing her as an opponent would, but it didn't mean he thought of her as anything other than an enemy.

Sitting at the table, Margaret avoided looking up at him. With tightly pressed lips she picked a spoon and pushed it around in the bowl he brought.

James stayed beside the table for a moment longer then turned to leave. He was by the door when Margaret asked quietly:

„Where's... Steve?”

The named rolled out on her tongue softly, as if she was carefully testing the weight of it.

It felt airy. Filled her mouth like a sparkling bubble that burst as her teeth touched her bottom lip on the letter „v”.

She didn't stir upon hearing footsteps slowly aiming her way, nor did she look up when James rounded the table. He stood on opposite side of it, leaning his shoulder against the wall. Only his metal prosthetic glinted in her peripheral vision.

„On a mission.” He replied simply. It was honest and vague all at once.

Margaret nodded, still poking her food with little interest. She felt James' gaze on her, but didn't bother to reciprocate. She had enough of glare sparrings with Natasha.

„You miss him?” James asked.

„I most certainly do not!” Margaret's head shot up fast. She didn't notice, but her British accent grew heavier when she sounded offended.

She scowled at James, barely stopping herself from throwing the spoon at him for the smirk that curved his lips. Asshole was amused.

He shook his head slightly, muttering something about peas and pods. He rolled to the side, leaning his back against the wall and pushing his hands into the pockets of his pants.

„You know you're the only prisoner whose capture hasn't been reported to the World Council?” James' gaze seemed unfocused, staring somewhere ahead at nothing.

„Understandable.” She shrugged, not at all surprised. „A protocol enabling torture and death sentences without unnecessary paper work. And avoiding public knowledge of it.”

Many governments, if not all, practiced it. Certain cases were swept under the rug, signed with silence of special units and averted eyes of politicians.

„No.” James tilted his head to the side to peer at her. „Your presence here is confidential because Stevie's a stubborn, idealistic punk. Always has been.”

The way he spoke of Nomad, the way he said his name with a hint of tenderness, meant they had to know each other for a long time. Longer and deeper than a mutual goal only could ever establish. Thinking back to the day they brought her to the compound, James and Steve's interaction presented a closer bond.

„You knew each other. From before.” Margaret deducted.

Her back straightened. She felt curious. And jealous. Nomad had a living connection to the past, not only a newly formed alliance. Her fingers trembled, so she clenched them around the spoon.

„Yeah.” James' eyes drifted away again, his voice lowering marginally. „We grew up in the same neighborhood. Actually, we were together when Thanos raided the Earth. It's when I lost my arm-” he stretched his left arm out, looking at the play of light as he moved his fingers. „If it wasn't for Steve, I'd probably lose more.”

Margaret felt her throat tightening, her chest filled with stifling cold. She frowned. Why was he even telling her all of that? And why it had her limbs shaking?

„Idiot launched himself at Thanos. A ten year old with nothing but bare fists and teeth.” James snorted bitterly. „Maybe that's why the bastard took him.”

She didn't confirm his suspicions. Father chose his children for reasons that weren't always clear to her. To this day she had no idea why exactly had he chosen her.

Perhaps for the savage way she protected herself against an Outrider - with a broken piece of window, slashing at the alien flesh over and over, until she was covered head to toes in black blood.

„But you met again.” Margaret wondered how long Nomad has been keeping in touch with his childhood friend. How long has he been a spy for Terrans.

„Oh, have we!” A little laugh escaped James' lips. „On opposite sides, each with intention to kill the other. Until I realized that bloodthirsty bastard was the same little punk who got himself into fights in every Brooklyn alley. Took enough beating before he remembered me, though.”

She wanted to ask how they recognized each other, but somehow knew he wouldn't tell her. It had to be intimate, a truly deep connection which would snap Nomad out of brainwashing.

A brutal punch to jolt buried memories, as it had been for her.

But Margaret's connections were only with fragments of past life presented in a cold file, not as strong as a real person who could reach out and hold you as they used to.

„Why are you telling me all of this?” Margaret frowned.

„Because-” he straightened, looking down at her with compassion no one on Sanctuary has ever shown. „You need to realize it's possible to connect with someone in a human way. Even after what you went through.”

She had no reply for him. No comeback to crush his irrational hope for her humanity. Because she didn't believe his words.

And it hurt to realize she will never have what Steve has.

Trembling in her limbs heightened. Margaret had to tense her whole body to get it under control. She dropped her gaze to the bowl in front of her, forcing a spoonful into her mouth. She still didn't feel hungry, but she had to focus on something else than James' words.

He stayed for a longer moment. But when she refused to continue any form of communication with him, he sighed and left.

Later, when he brought dinner, Margaret didn't even glance his way.

She refused to interact with anyone for days. Only Gamora was able to get a few sentences out of her. However, Margaret's dissociated behavior has been influencing the girl in a bad way, so they stopped letting Gamora in.

It was a late afternoon on who-knows-which day, Margaret's dinner cold and barely touched, when Steve strode in.

In combat suit, ripped in places; shield on his back, and a furious look on his face.

He was tired and antsy, barely got out of the ship and into the compound when Bucky reluctantly briefed him on Margaret's state. Instead of going for much deserved shower and sleep, he took the elevator to the prison floor.

Margaret blinked, stunned at first. Then she was up on her feet, rushing towards him. She stopped an arm's reach away from him.

They looked at each other wordlessly. Until he snapped.

„What the fuck are you pulling off?!”

She had no idea what they've reported to him, but his anger at her was enough to rile her up. It's been a few long days since she felt something so intense. Everything has been so pallid and insipid.

„Why do you care?” Margaret snarled, daring to poke her finger in his chest.

He looked ready to grab her wrist, maybe break it too, when a loud boom filled their ears. Walls shook, lights flickered, then the ceiling was crumbling down in heavy blocks. Black dust filled the space.

Margaret fell down, her head hitting concrete. Something massive dropped onto her, pushing all air out of her lungs.


	8. Chapter 8

Margaret coughed. Her head thrummed with static buzzing.

When she opened her eyes everything seemed soaked in grey – a coat of concrete dust and dirt, she realized.

Steve's face above her was constricted in pain. Droplets of sweat glistened on his forehead, flakes of dust clung to his cheeks and beard.

He covered her with his body, holding his shield above them.

Though he felt heavy, Margaret was thankful it was the weight of him pressing her into the floor, not a block which would severely damage, if not kill her on the spot.

Margaret dragged her hands from between their bodies. She kicked her legs and used her freed arms to push at the rubble surrounding them, trying to make as much space for both of them as possible. Then she hooked one of her legs over Steve's.

His eyes closed and he clenched his teeth. Not in reaction to her movement. There was a large piece of torn ceiling pressing on his legs. And he still stayed unmoved, using all his strength to hold himself above Margaret.

„I'll kick it. You tuck in.” She said, sneaking her hands up around his shoulders for leverage.

Steve gave a jerky nod, his eyes still closed.

Margaret wrapped her other leg around him and then booted the chunk of concrete. Steve swiftly pulled his legs, bending his knees and crouching.

Some fragments of rubble toppled from the shield as they moved, cascading around them. A cloud of dust filled the air again.

„I think we can get up,” Steve rasped out, giving a testing push upward.

The pressure against the shield was massive – it had to be more than just a single block. His arm burned with pain, muscles in his neck and back straining so much they felt like snapping anytime now. Still, Steve held on.

He had to.

Margaret let go of him. She moved into a kneeling position in front of him, hands gently placed on his shoulders, careful to remain beneath the shield.

Their eyes locked.

Slowly, Steve pushed upwards. Weight of the rubble fell down heavier, his elbows nearly cracked under the burden of it. Then Margaret's hands moved. She reached up, fingers curling around the straps of the shield, and helped him push.

He heard the little, defeated yelp she made feeling the heft of what they were fighting against.

Gritting his teeth, Steve shoved with all his power. And more. His loud groan turned into an angry yell. Rumble of chaffing slabs and cracking concrete resounded along.

Margaret buried her face in Steve's chest when debris started falling around them. She could feel his yell vibrating against her cheeks. Her arms stretched, still trying to help him, though she felt like it was nothing compared to Steve's force.

Gradually, they stood up. With a final push, Steve threw remaining chunks off the shield.

His arm fell to his side, tired and numb, but his grip on the shield remained solid. His other arm was loosely wrapped around Margaret. Her breathing was as ragged as his.

She blinked, surprised at the light filling the space in a stream coming from above them. Still holding onto Nomad, she tilted her head upwards. The hole ripped by the blast reached up to the very ground level, meaning four floors least.

The sky above was a dimmed blue, brushed with first licks of sunset oranges.

For a long moment there was nothing but silence. Then ground shook again. More blasts resounded in the distance. Shouts followed.

A ghastly sound which they both knew too well – like screeching and wet snapping combined into one – neared the hole above them.

First appeared a pair of claws. Then a second pair. And an ugly snout with teeth like razors.

„Outriders!”

Steve twisted his body around, pulling Margaret along with him. They had little chance fighting against a swarm of Outriders in a narrow space, if they descended down. He wouldn't risk staying to check if the creatures still recognized their scent as one not to touch.

They climbed the blocks separating them from entrance. Fortunately for them, Tony's system still functioned and the wall liquified to let Steve through.

Closing the door behind them provided only temporary security. For what's behind them, at least. With the compund under attack there was no telling what awaited them once they got to the upper levels.

Corridors were cast in darkness, lights flickering on and off. The power had to go to more important sections of the compound to establish as much security as possible. Nomad and Margaret were used to operating in dark spaces, though it took some time before their eyes adjusted.

Margaret ran beside him, peering over her shoulder to check for potential danger.

He lead them into a side corridor, past the elevator. Behind a now crooked door was a staircase – mainly intact. It was missing some steps and a railing few meters above the ground, but the space between bottom and upper part of the staircase wasn't drastically wide. An adult person could reach the hanging railing and pull themselves up from the last step on the bottom part of the stairs.

Steve pushed Margaret forward. The last three steps she took running, launching herself with impetus toward the railing of the upper part. She pulled herself up without much strain and kept climbing.

When they reached ground level and walked into an open space of the main floor chaos surrounded them instantly.

Floor to ceiling windows were completely shattered, bare beams separated the floor from the grounds. Cracked ceiling and walls threatened to fall anytime. Various furniture were torn into pieces, strewn across the hallway. Bodies laid beneath heavier debris, no signs of life.

Outside the building, ongoing fight already splattered blood over once green grass. An oval, distinctive spacecraft hovered above.

„Maw?” Fear laced Margaret's voice.

„Or Proxima.” Nomad straightened, firming his grip on the shield.

They stepped forward. Glass crunched under their feet as they moved. Nomad's heavy boots were more suited for destruction they faced, than soft, flat shoes Margaret was wearing. As was his combar suit. Sweatpants and a long-sleeved cotton blouse wouldn't provide Margaret much protection.

Being slashed in a fight still seemed a better option than facing Maw and later Father. She could easily prove being a prisoner, but it wouldn't grant her a pardon from a _checkup_.

Margaret swept her gaze around the ruins of something that looked pristine and safe when they brought her here. People were fighting against Outriders, though fortunately there weren't many of creatures.

Which meant Black Order wasn't here for a battle, but merely a retrieval.

She saw Natasha fighting Corvus, as fast and agile as she was he barely managed to prevent her punches.

Barton sliced through an Outrider and joined Natasha. They were extremely coordinated, meaning they've fought alongside for many years. It forced Corvus to move faster to return each of their strikes.

Something flew over their heads. A flash of gold and red that went straight for the spaceship.

On the ground a loud roar pierced through the sounds of fight. A huge, green beast jumped into a swarm of Outriders, picking them up like dolls and ripping apart.

A flash of red danced in the distance, but before Margaret registered what exactly was happening there her attention switched.

James shot at Outriders with such ease it seemed the monsters weren't running at rapid pace, but standing in place. When a large number of them sped his way, he shot in series. Until it proved futile.

He dropped the gun and extracted twin knives. He used them swiftly, effectively. But there were too many creatures crawling over him.

An urge to aid him shot through Margaret. Her muscles tensed, one foot moved forward. And yet, she stilled.

Her gaze moved to the spacecraft. She could make a run for it, find herself in a place she well knew and felt confident operating. There was plenty weapon to grab and use. She could get herself free of this place and treacherous feelings it evoked.

She could bring Thanos the stones.

It would please him. Maybe even save her from Maw's claws for a long, long time. He'd be too busy taking apart Nomad, anyway.

At that thought her chest constricted painfully.

Margaret turned her head to look at Steve, but he wasn't beside her anymore.

He was running toward James. He tossed his shield, knocking down two creatures. It bounced off, returning to his hand. In a fluid move he twisted his body. Sharp edge of the shield cut through another Outrider.

A high-pitched screaming made Margaret instantly turn around.

It took her a moment to scan the field in search of the source of heart-clenching shrieks. Among fighters, mounds of ground and few fallen trees, she spotted Proxima's tall, distinctive shape.

She was dragging Gamora towards the spacecraft.

Margaret rushed momentarily.

She sprinted across the field, dodging claws reaching out to slash. Agility and speed always were on her strong side, but it felt as if she was gaining momentum like never before. Her heart raced, pulse pounding in her head like a blacksmith's hammer.

Dirt splashed up her calves as she jumped into a post-blast gouge in the ground. She used a piece of destroyed landing stripe to bounce off of it.

With impetus, she crashed into Proxima – kneeing her in the chest.

It sent Proxima sprawling on the ground. Gamora dropped down and rolled onto her side. Margaret pulled her up quickly.

„Go! Run and hide!” She ordered.

Gamora didn't hesitate a second. Turning on her feet, she ran in the opposite direction, covering her ears to muffle terrifying sounds around her.

Proxima stood up fast, though she kept herself from charging right away. She narrowed her eyes, glancing up and down Margaret's form. Not that she ever had a good opinion of her, but without a combat suit and her preferred staff Margaret seemed less worthy of an opponent.

„You betray us?” Proxima looked at her in disgust. „You dare to betray Thanos?”

Conditioned surge of panic at the mere thought of displeasing Thanos made Margaret sweat. Negation itched to roll out on her tongue, searching for any way to avoid severe punishment.

Then she remembered why she stopped Proxima. Why minutes ago she was ready to aid a Terran who should mean nothing to her.

Tilting her chin defiantly, Margaret replied - „I will not let the kid be harmed.”

The force behind her cold promise surprised Margaret herself.

For the past weeks, if she's been even thinking about Gamora, none of accompanying feelings felt so strong. That moment, however, she was ready to draw blood. More, she was ready to spill her own.

„Then I'll spare you the sight and kill you right away.” Proxima snorted, her lips curling in a smirk.

Objectively, she had all the advantages. Full combat gear, including a spear impossible to catch if thrown; as well a troop of flesh-hungry Outriders to command if she wanted to make it even more unfair. And Proxima has never shown much interest in being honorable.

Margaret bent her legs slightly, balancing her weight. She unclenched her fists, knowing she won't be able to throw many punches while the spear was in use.

Proxima attacked first.

In two, long strides she moved forward, slashing the spear upwards then quickly using the other end to hit Margaret on the side.

Margaret rolled down. She kicked at one of Proxima's legs and grabbed the middle of the spear to haul herself up.

She swung her body upwards, flipping over Proxima with an attempt to get behind her. But Proxima pushed up, ramming her skull into Margaret's back. The clash rattled Margaret's bones. Proxima's horns tore through fabric of Margaret's blouse, slicing her skin as well. It evoked a painful cry.

Margaret fell to the ground. Face down.

Her back ached. Pain tingled down her legs. With a pitiful moan, she tried to get up. Her fingers sank in muddy ground.

Proxima kicked her, with a force causing Margaret's body to flip and roll.

„I'll make sure-” leaning over her with a triumphant smile, Proxima pointed the spear at Margaret- „that the kid suffers endlessly.”

She pulled her arm back, ready to strike and kill. Margaret moved faster.

Margaret threw a fistful of mud into Proxima's eyes, kicking both legs from under her at the same time. She swung another kick higher, hitting the head. Then she thrust herself forward, knocking Proxima over.

Though her spine burned, she yanked her foot up then crushed it down into Proxima's skull. Once. Twice.

Blood gushed when she broke one of Proxima's horns.

Proxima let out a loud wail. But pain reinforced her. Enraged, she wrenched to the side, throwing Margaret down again.

She didn't stay flat on the ground long. She wrapped her fingers around the broken, calloused appendage, picking it up.

Margaret rose.

Proxima stood opposite of her. Streaks of thick, blue blood covered half of her face.

She rushed at Margaret full force. Spear thrust forward faster than a blink of an eye. Margaret twisted to the side, barely in time. Sizzling blue claw of the spear brushed past Margaret's cheek.

Margaret gripped the horn in her hand and rammed it straight into Proxima's arm. Fingers unclenched, spear falling loose out of Proxima's grasp. Margaret was quick to grab it.

She drove it into Proxima's chest.

She kept holding and pushing, following the movement of a lifeless body slowly dropping to the ground. Even as red eyes hazed over, blearing until they seemed colourless, Margaret crushed the spear further into Proxima's body.

Finally, she pulled back. Pool of dark fluid spilled around the corpse and down the spear, trickling over Margaret's fingers where they wrapped around the pole.

Margaret straightened. She dragged her gaze up from the fallen body to take notice of ruined surroundings. Sounds of battle were mostly down, only a murmur of pained grunts and yells for medic echoed.

She turned around in search of a familiar silhouette. She spotted him beside a pile of dismembered Outriders, shaking off blood of his shield.

Margaret's shoulders dropped in relief, tension she hasn't been aware of holding leaving her body. With a tired sigh, she walked over to him.

Her shoes were drenched in mud and blood. Slush glued together tips of her hair, some of it sticking to her neck as well. Though she didn't look herself over, Margaret was quite sure grime covered most of her.

Steve didn't look much better.

Blue eyes caught hers as she neared, holding her gaze until she was within arm's reach. He glanced briefly at the spear in her hand than back at her, but said nothing. Turning slightly, he faced people who started gathering close.

„Anyone has any suggestions what to do with the flying donut?” A shimmer of gold and red landed in the middle of their small clearing.

Sturdy armor turned liquid – nanoparticles retracted and reshaped, forming a casual tracksuit with a glowing core on Tony's chest.

„Disable the main panel.” Margaret rasped out, careless of the fact no one expected her opinion on the matter. „It has a tracker. If a unit doesn't report within a certain span of time, it automatically switches on.”

Tony stared at her for a long moment. Blinked. Then turned his head to look at other teammates, before returning to her.

„I'm sorry-” he lifted his hand pointing at her. „Weren't you the bad guy?”

„Not now, Tony.” Steve cut in. „We have some time, we better use it well. Tracker needs to be disabled. _We_ need to push the plan forward.”

Margaret noticed how everyone's attention was focused on him. They never mentioned any ranks; from what she's observed so far they operated on equal levels. And yet, they turned to Steve for leadership, even if on the surface only.

„How serious is the damage?” Steve addressed Tony.

„Thankfully, we're below fifty percent. JARVIS reports the construction is stable, so we can retrieve the bodies and whatever else we need. I'll have the Iron Legion start working on it. But operating from here, is not a good idea. Our merry company can crash at the lake house.” Tony paused, frowning. His gaze drifted away for a moment.

„The kids-” his voice wavered - „Pepper will take them to a safehouse. Rhodey is already on his way to help with that.”

Margaret's fingers twitched. The urge to clasp them around a small hand felt almost painful. Knowing that Gamora was safe was worth any discomfort her body might experience.

Steve turned his head slightly, glancing at her. If he didn't turn away so quickly, she could make the faint tilt of his lips.

„We need to move the stones.” A shaky voice coming from further away drew Margaret's attention to a man in a hastily buttoned shirt and pants that looked too tight for him.

Bruce, if she remembered correctly. He walked towards them, hands nervously rubbing at his sides. He seemed to be in shock, as many people post battle, but somehow no one rushed to provide help.

„Yes.” Steve nodded and without a beat asked - „You up for it?”

With a sigh, Bruce agreed. Next to him, a teenage girl who's been staring at the damaged building tilted her head up. There was something in her eyes Margaret knew from her own reflection. A shadow of terrors – experienced and done.

She had determination set in her features and a barely visible, thin red streaks weaving around her.

„I'll go too.” The girl said, meeting Steve's gaze without a flinch.

„You sure, Wanda?” The way he asked wasn't exactly soft. Nomad's voice still held that unbent coldness, though it lacked cruelty.

However, there seemed to be a peculiar sympathy between them. One often found between a master and apprentice. It piqued Margaret's interest. And something else; something aggravating.

„Yes.” Wanda stood straighter, almost at attention like a soldier.

A red gleam flashed in her eyes for a split of a second, dispersing before Margaret could decipher its nature.

„Bruce and Wanda will relocate the stones according to our previous agreements.” Steve swung the shield over his head, securing it against his back. „Survivors need to be transported to medical facilities. Barton? Natasha?” He looked at the two of them. „You're good to fly?”

„Sure, but we have to prepare jets for the stretchers. Cho won't allow us to do it below her standards.”

„I'll contact Wilson.” Natasha pulled her hair back, twisting it into a knot. „We might need more birds for transport. If that turns to be the case, it's better to have them up and ready.”

„How much time do we have?” James, who's been focused on rubbing grime off his metal prosthetic, chimed in. „Do we even have it?”

This time when Steve turned to look at Margaret he held her gaze for a longer moment. She realized he waited for her assessment of the situation.

She was an outsider. Like Tony pointed out, few hours ago she had been a prisoner, an enemy. Steve possessed all the knowledge and experience of a Black Order member; perhaps, even had a closer look at Thanos' plans and tactics. He didn't really need Margaret to point out the obvious.

But he included her as if she was a part of the team.

Margaret swallowed the sudden lump forming in her throat.

„They don't know about the stones. Not yet, at least.” She spoke. „If Thanos had the slightest inkling one of the stones is here, he'd already be here with all of his forces. This was a small troop. For recon or retrieval.”

„They came for you?” James looked her way, frowning with something akin to concern.

It caused guilt to bitterly bubble in her stomach over leaving him to the Outriders when she had a chance to help him.

„Doubtful.” She shook her head. „They could've spotted you-” she nodded towards Steve- „wherever you were on your mission. Then followed. Just to be save, it would be wise to scan the both of us for internal trackers.”

Though Thanos had strong faith in their loyalty (unrightfully, as it turned out), Maw could've put certain, cruel precautions while they were broken in his hands. Not only to keep them on a leash, but for his own amusement.

If that slimy psychopath put something under her skin, Margaret was ready to claw it out with her bare hands.

„Already have.” Tony smirked at her. „No worries, Oxford. Beside venom and balls of steel you're clean. Your dark knight here has some extras, but no tracker either.”

Margaret frowned. She didn't find Tony's comparisons amusing, but he didn't seem to care.

„Alright.” Steve jerked his head sharply.

Hands resting on the belt of his suit, his position commanded attention (and, unknowingly to him, emphasized the breadth of his chest).

„Everyone knows what to do. As soon as you get the opportunity catch on sleep. Anything happens, or you need help, alert me. Briefing's tomorrow morning at the lake house.”

Margaret watched them disband. Each moved with pace and purpose designated to their task and to match the person they were cooperating with. All of them shifting as cogs in one mechanism. A team laden with experience.

Only her and Nomad- _Steve_, she corrected herself; only the two of them left behind.

He turned to her fully and stepped closer. Palm up, he gave her his hand.

She couldn't cover the tremble in her fingers as she slipped them into his gentle grasp.

Steve tightened his hold on her hand and it felt overwhelmingly reassuring. Margaret hoped he would hold her as close when Thanos kills them.


	9. Chapter 9

Pine cones and acorns crunched under Steve's boots as they walked from the vehicle toward the house. Margaret looked around, fairly shocked by the view. They were in the middle of a forest, though around the house the trees were rather sparse. Spots of short grass intertwined with puffy, dark moss and bare ground covered only in fallen leaves.

A natural mess, instead of pristine arrangements.

Margaret loved it here.

She watched her own feet tap against the wooden boards leading to the house. For some reason it made her feel relaxed and carefree. When they took the few steps onto a porch the shimmering lake came into full view. The water had to be cold, but she wouldn't mind jumping in.

Steve opened the door, letting her in first. Pads of his fingers brushed the small of her back as he guided Margaret through the house.

It was a wide open space, but filled with warm-toned furniture and so many personal trinkets it seemed much smaller. Cozy, too. They passed a sleek smart-table that took centre focus among tall bookcases and reached the stairs. Few wooden planks squeaked when Steve put his weight on them.

Beside this and their breathing there was nothing but silence. A peaceful one.

Upstairs, they turned right. With how Steve maneuvered them, passing some rooms, it was clear he had been here at least once. Perhaps more.

He opened the door at the end of hall, leading her into a bedroom.

First thing that instantly drew her attention was a wide window taking nearly half of the wall opposite of door. It gave a view on the green branches and spots of sky which one could look at from the bed. A bed much bigger than practical cots they had in their quarters at the Sanctuary. More inviting and comfortable than the mattress she slept on in the prison cell, too.

„We can rest here.” Steve switched the lights on and closed the door behind them.

Margaret stood still in the middle of the room while he moved around with ease of someone being in a place they know, a place they feel comfortable being in.

„You can take shower there,” he pointed at the sliding door on the right.

A shower sounded wonderful. Margaret still felt Proxima's dried blood on her skin, not to mention the rest of grime sticking to her in places.

She glanced at Steve who sat at the edge of the bed and leaned down to unlace his boots. She kicked her own shoes off, using her foot to move them into a spot beside the wall. Then she padded into the bathroom.

It was small, but still more luxurious than a stall Margaret was used to. A walk-in shower, toilet in the corner, and a single sink with a round mirror above it. Floor tiles were warm beneath her feet.

Margaret discarded her clothes, throwing them into a wicker basket beside the sink. She allowed herself to soak under the water spray for much longer than she usually took in the shower. She went through little bottles that were arranged on the shower shelf – opening each and sniffing the colorful fluids.

One that smelled like lush, garden flowers (peonies, if she remembered right) called to her the most and she used it to scrub her body clean. She washed her hair twice.

Without anything clean to wear, Margaret wrapped a big towel around herself before exiting the bathroom.

Steve was still sitting on the bed, in the same spot he occupied when she left. His boots were off, as was the top part of his suit. Margaret let her gaze wander over his exposed chest.

A few scars marred Steve's light skin. There were also red lines running from his armpits over his shoulders to his back, from the shield's harness she assumed. Hair covered his pecks and trailed down in a thin line. Below his navel the thatch grew thicker and darker, disappearing under the belt.

Margaret walked over, stopping between his spread legs. He looked up.

There was something vulnerable in his expression. Exhaustion, but not only physical.

She reached out to flick a strand of hair that's fallen across his forehead. She tucked it behind his ear, her fingers lingering. When she gently cupped his cheek Steve leaned into her touch.

He tilted his head to kiss her wrist.

Reluctantly, Margaret pulled her hand back. Her heart hammered in her chest when she untied the knot on her towel and let it drop to the floor.

Steve's eyes darkened, but stayed on her face long enough to impress her. Then, oh so slowly, his gaze trailed down.

She could feel heat blooming in pink blots over her chest, spreading up her neck and cheeks. It wasn't the first time she found herself naked with someone, but never before had she felt so exposed. And desired.

Margaret's occasional lovers have wanted her, sure. Steve, however, seemed to crave more than only her body.

Calloused fingers gripped the back of her calves. His touch traveled upwards, softly caressing her skin only to suddenly clutch her thighs harshly.

Steve easily lifted her off the floor and pulled over his lap. She sat on his thighs with a gasp, hands grabbing his shoulders to steady herself. Margaret's breasts pressed against Steve's bare chest; her nipples stiffened at the contact.

Rough fabric of Steve's suit rubbed between Margaret's thighs just right, causing her to shiver and roll her hips. She felt him twitch against her thigh. More curious than teasing, she rubbed against him again.

Steve stilled her, then slid one of his hands up her back. Fingers tangled in her hair, but he didn't pull on it. His fist tightened enough to send pleasant pin pricks down her spine and to angle her for a kiss.

Though unrushed, the kiss was hard and hungry. More teeth and tongue, but _oh_ did Steve knew how to flick it between her parted lips to have Margaret rock against him.

Her mouth tingled, the skin around it began to burn from chaffing caused by Steve's beard. He kissed along her jaw then sucked on her earlobe.

He dragged his teeth down her neck, stopping to suck tender skin over her pulse point. Then his mouth moved further down. Fist in Margaret's hair pulled lightly, forcing her to arch back.

„You on the potion?” Steve rasped, mouthing at the curve of Margaret's breast.

„Y-yeah.” Margaret moaned when he closed his lips around her nipple. She slid her fingers into his hair, holding his head in place.

Steve's attention switched to the other breast, this time flicking his tongue back and forth nearly driving her crazy. Then, suddenly, she was flat on her back on the bed and Steve was hastily pushing the suit past his hips.

Margaret's eyes followed the trail of dark hair on his abdomen. He was already half-hard, pearling at the tip. Her fingers itched to wrap around, eager to check if her hand would fully close over his girth. Steve's own hand did. He gave a few slow strokes, all the while watching her.

She moved up on the bed and Steve followed. When he stretched above her Margaret felt pleasantly overpowered.

She rarely allowed her partners on top and with how much bigger Steve was she should act on fear and flip them over. But she didn't want to. Didn't need to. He already crushed her with his body earlier today and it brought only the sense of safety.

Now the weight of him, the wide breadth of his chest and huge arms trapping her beneath him, aroused her.

Margaret brushed her fingers over Steve's belly then moved her hands up his sides and over his back. Between his shoulder blades she felt a hard plate beneath his skin. Not a natural part of body, but something artificial.

Feeling her touch linger in one spot, Steve crushed their mouths together effectively distracting her.

He held above her on one arm, moving the other to explore Margaret's body. She made sweet sounds against Steve's lips as he played with her breast. As sensitive as her nipples were it was the skin on the side curve that caused Margaret to shake when he scratched it.

He took time to caress the newly filled roundness of her belly – a lovely effect of a few weeks on rich, hearty food. Below her belly button tiny, soft hair peppered her skin. Lower they curled, felt a bit more coarse against his fingers.

Margaret's fingernails dug into Steve's back when he parted her wet folds. He teased her, spreading slick all over. Her body jolted at the pressure on her clit.

She strained her neck to kiss below Steve's chin and across his neck. Her tongue dipped in the hollow of his clavicle. He was still sweaty from the battle, but she chased the taste of him with hunger. Her kisses and nips made Steve shudder.

„_Fuck_, Margaret-” he cursed, thrusting his fingers inside her.

She clenched around his digits when he curled them. More wetness trickled down.

Breath hitched in her lungs and her teeth bit deeper into his biceps. She pulled back, unexpectedly; dropping her head onto a pillow. She looked at Steve bewildered.

„Peggy.” She said quietly. „My family and friends used to call me Peggy.”

For a moment he stared at her, speechless. Then everything moved so rapidly she barely had a second to brace herself. His fingers slipped out with an obscene sound. Wet digits pushed on Margaret's thigh, spreading her wider.

Steve buried his face in the crook of her neck, his breath hot against her skin. He fucked into her in a languid, but merciless thrust.

„Peggy-” he moaned her name.

The broken sound of it, desperate and pleasant, burned stronger than the stretch of him inside her.

Or maybe it was all of him – body and feelings he evoked – that made Peggy tear up.

When Steve moved it was slow, too slow. He was dragging out the sensation. She ran her hand down his back, nails scratching in demand. He responded tilting her head back, so he could swipe his tongue the whole length of her exposed throat. Tips of hair fallen around his face tickled her skin.

Three times he nearly brought her to a peak, only to still moments before she came. She thought him to be teasing her purposely; but he watched her expressions so closely, chased every sounds she made by repeating a move that caused it, she realized Steve simply didn't want this to end.

With how tense Peggy was, the bubble had to burst eventually.

It did. With her screaming Steve's name and coiling around his body. Tears trickled down her temples.

Steve fucked her through it. Frown creasing his forehead and determination set in his jaw, he tried to prolong it. Until his thrusts became jerky and sloppy, his self-control crumbling.

The sound of his moan (pitched higher than she expected) made her clench.

He rested his forehead against Peggy's, tips of their noses brushing. She rubbed his back, soothing the shudders that still rocked through him.

She kept touching him even as they rested side by side, sated and spent. She scratched his beard, danced her fingertips across his chest, traced a dip above his thigh. Steve hummed contentedly. He had one arm under his head, the other wrapped around Peggy.

Outside, dusk settled in: the greenery of forest invisible among the darkness, but the sounds of wind and night life composed a lullaby.

„Your back.” Peggy spoke quietly, drawing circles over his sternum. „They did something to you.”

She expected him to tense, or avoid talking about it. She'd understand that. But he kept playing with her hair, not really disturbed by the topic she picked.

„Many years ago. I was a teenager then.” He said. „A punishment for swinging the shield at Thanos.”

Margaret's heart rose to her throat. She didn't remember anything like that happening, but she knew the punishment had to be severe. Her stomach filled with dread.

„He wasn't much bothered by my attempt, simply commented I need to make sure to never lose the shield. So-” he paused. „So Maw put a magnetic plate in my back to carry the shield. It hurt like hell. Not only getting it done, but later.”

Terror ran Peggy's blood cold.

Steve's shield was heavy. Even support from the harness, which allowed to balance its weight, caused strains. To be forced to hold the shield using only the muscles of a growing boy... the thought alone made her nauseous.

„My skin and muscles ripped a few times. That's why I put extra work on building the strength in my back. It took me almost two years to earn Thanos' forgiveness. He awarded me with a proper harness for the shield when I turned into what he expected. A loyal beast.”

Neither of them were really that, but there were methods that turned the kindest, most innocent into soulless weapons. Thanos knew how to achieve it.

„Does it still hurt?” Peggy pushed herself up on one arm to watch Steve's face.

Her hand splayed on his chest, feeling a steady rhythm of his heart beneath her fingers. Steve moved his own hand from her back to gently wrap around her wrist.

„No.” He brought her hand to his lips, kissing each of her fingertips. „Tony degaussed it. They tried to remove it, but according to doctor Cho over a decade of having it in me forced my muscles to grow around it. Cutting it out could mean serious impairment.”

It brought only partial relief to know he wasn't suffering the strain of it anymore. But for so many years he had. Each of them were hurt in cruel ways, learning to believe it's the only way of functioning.

Terrans showed her there are other ways of working towards a goal. Even if you're a prisoner, the status doesn't have to equate pain.

Since fear and torment were introduced to them early on in their lives, Peggy couldn't quite understand why Steve did something as reckless as attack Thanos directly. Not as a child, but a teenager who has spent enough years on the Sanctuary to know better.

„Why did you even throw it at him?” She asked, somewhat exasperated.

So far seemingly unbothered by the topic, Steve froze for a second. He dropped their joined hands onto his chest. His gaze drifted to the side, staring at nothing in particular.

Peggy didn't want to push, understanding some things were impossible to voice. Still, she couldn't imagine what provoked the ever stoic Nomad to lash out so violently, damn well knowing how much it will cost it.

Or maybe he had been an impulsive kid, who tamped down after years of repeated torture.

Steve's fingers squeezed her hand a little tighter, but he still didn't look at her as he finally spoke:

„It was after he ordered your punishment. For the nail polish.”

Margaret felt a surge of panic at the memory, which quickly dissolved into a burning wave that clogged her throat. She sat unaware of her body shaking, or of the tears streaming down her face.

No one ever felt anger on her behalf. No one ever fought for her.

Or so she thought.

And he paid a horrendous price for it.

Steve pulled her down and she went willingly. Her tears were salty between their lips, dripping faster with each shaky whimper she made. With his hand he cradled her head, allowing Peggy to lead his lips the way she needed.

She kissed him most softly. Lovingly. As if she was that innocent girl again and he just freed her from Maw's chains.

They didn't talk about it more, only held each other until Peggy's tears dried.

Later, as they dozed off, she was the one to push Steve onto his side and pressed herself against his back. She had her arm around him and one of her legs over his thigh. She kissed his nape before settling to sleep.

Shuffling noises in the middle of the night alerted her. „'Ts just the team,” Steve mumbled, not opening his eyes. He patted her hand and tugged the covers up to his nose, nearly covering her whole in the process.

Surprisingly, with his reassurance Peggy was able to drift back to sleep quite quickly.

Dawn found them tangled – Steve on his back, Margaret half atop him, and the covers mostly on the floor.

She rubbed her leg across his, felt him harden against her thigh.

If Steve still had been dozing, he woke up fully the moment Peggy wrapped her fingers around his cock. He growled her name in a warning. One she didn't pay much attention to, too engrossed in the feel of his hot flesh in her grip.

She rolled her hips in rhythm of her strokes, rubbing herself against Steve's thigh.

She wasn't much wet when she straddled him, but the need to feel him inside was stronger than care for comfort. Her body adjusted rather eagerly, anyway; a few moves up and down and a slick sound accompanied her little gasps.

Steve's hands rested on her thighs at first, but soon moved to palm her breasts. With how hungry his gaze was and how many different tricks his fingers played, Peggy figured he had a thing for boobs.

Partly to reward him, she bent forward. Steve's mouth latched onto her nipple right away. Hands on both sides of his head, arms stretched, Peggy swayed above him faster. He splayed his hands on her ass, urging her.

In this angle her clit rubbed against his pelvis, toppling Peggy over the peak quickly. And loudly.

Steve held her to him, rushing his hips upwards. He pressed his face into her breasts, hot breath and drool wetting her skin. His teeth nicked her when he came, and he soothed the sting with tender kisses.

They tried to take a shower together. Where Peggy discovered that sex and water didn't mix for her. Everything was slippery, and what _should stay_ slippery washed out, allowing only for frustrating discomfort.

So she pushed Steve out of the shower, dropped a towel on the floor (more for precaution than convenience) and bent over the sink.

Afterwards, they showered separately.

Steve gave her some clean clothes. Pastel pink sweatpants fit Peggy relatively well, but a simple T-shirt with a faded sign „I'm having 12% of a moment” was too tight. Its owner had to be slender. They definitely had smaller breasts, considering how the fabric stretched over Peggy's chest.

When they opened the door sounds of conversation and clinking of dishes coming from downstairs made Peggy stop in her tracks.

She didn't hear anything until now. No, she corrected herself. She heard, but didn't pay it any attention.

Because, perhaps for the first time in over twenty years, Margaret's body wasn't functioning on high alert. She felt safe.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is more of a filler. It pushes the plot forward, but doesn't make much of an impact on any of the characters.

Sense of safety didn't mean Peggy felt easy around the team when they met with them downstairs. She played the part well, keeping her face neutral as her fingers brushed against Steve's hand for a quick peck of support.

Everyone's eyes locked on them the moment they entered the kitchen. A scrutiny almost as intense as Maw's inspection, but without malice. Rather amusement.

The team couldn't get more than a few hours of sleep, but seemed rested enough to function. It was clear they're used to operating on fumes, pushing through exhaustion.

Perhaps being in each other's presence provided a certain alleviation as well. They were relaxed, careless of the other's less than perfect state or presented weakness. Something Margaret never experienced when on Sanctuary. Black Order's gatherings were for strategy only and no one let their guard down.

It was a novelty to find herself in a group of warriors who weren't interested in taking the other down.

Well, not seriously at least. Because Tony looked like blasting Barton when he refilled his mug to the brim. Tony moved the coffee carafe out of Barton's reach, scowling at him like a scolding parent. He was drinking a green, thick juice himself; it didn't look particularly appetizing.

„You know,” Tony tilted his glass Peggy's way when she and Steve walked in. „For someone who played mute for the last week or so, you're extremely vocal.”

„Tony.” Steve's voice lowered in admonishment.

He placed his hand on Peggy's back, gently pushing her forward. She moved toward an empty chair by the table. A big, family table, full of food she didn't know anyone post battle could find the time and energy to prepare.

On the opposite side of the table Natasha sat with her legs propped up on James' lap. One of her arms was resting on the back of James' chair, her fingers playing with his hair.

„He means we've heard you fucking.” Natasha smirked, then popped a strawberry into her mouth.

Peggy didn't appear concerned by the revelation. She sat down and helped herself to a stack of fluffy, deliciously smelling pancakes. Purposely, she prolonged her silence, taking the time to peek into three jugs - each filled with something different: a thick, amber colored liquid; a light purple one with what seemed to be little berries; and a rich, dark chocolate.

She picked the middle one and poured a hefty amount over her pancakes.

„So?” Finally, she replied, quirking a brow.

„So?!” Tony didn't seem outraged, rather exasperated. „Weren't you taught any etiquette in the outerspace? Some things should stay private.”

„I won't quench my desires to accommodate your sensitivities.”

Though Peggy meant it seriously, they found it hilarious. James snorted, spluttering his coffee back into a mug. Barton (sneaking his arm behind Tony's back to get the carafe) burst out laughing.

„When this is all done-” Tony said, pointing a finger at her and Nomad - „we need to get you a house deep in the woods. Far away from anyone.”

Instead of voicing her doubts about them surviving long enough to settle anywhere, Peggy took a big bite of food.

For a fleeting second she felt irrational warmth at the thought of having a house like this one. She'd like living in a forests. All the green and soft sounds that felt soothing. She'd learn about flora and animals living around her, and not to use it against them. But to know. And coexist.

In a little clearing she and Steve could spar, barefoot. Take a swim in the lake afterwards. Then fuck until she couldn't move a muscle.

Peggy didn't allow herself to entertain that image for long. Chances of surviving Thanos' wrath were below zero.

Steve pulled himself a stool to sit beside her. He put two mugs for them on the table. Not with coffee like the rest of the team preferred, but tea. So sweet that one sip rushed Peggy's blood and colored her skin.

A brief thought crossed her mind - if he was catching up on the years of missing sweets with a slightly exaggerated eagerness.

She glanced his way, but he didn't notice her questioning look. He already gulped half of his tea. He took a plate of scrambled eggs and a peanut butter sandwich, combining the two in one bite. Judging by his face it had to be quite delicious. Peggy doubted it, but wasn't interested in checking.

„Wanda and Banner reported about four hours ago.” James said, his eyes on Steve. „As tense as the atmosphere there is, it seems they're getting along with the wizard.”

There was something in his tone, and in the way he looked at Steve, which implied double meaning. One the other team members were oblivious to, or at least playing so.

Peggy noticed.

She kept eating as if nothing suspicious passed over the table, but studied James' face watchfully. Over the past weeks she learned that he could be an open book – genuine and kind; but switching to an expressionless iceberg came to him as easily.

„Hope it stays that way,” Steve mumbled, chewing his breakfast. He swallowed and chased it down with another gulp of tea, before asking- „How we stand on losses?”

„Five casualties. Thirteen wounded, two in critical condition. The rest will be fine.” Natasha reported. „We were able to transport them all in one go.”

„Pepper and kids are at the safehouse.” Tony said. Despite the strain still present in his voice, he sounded relieved.

Peggy found herself letting out a little sigh on her own at his words.

„Maria's with them, too.” He added with an amused snort. „She'd say it's for protection and to help Pepper get all the kids in line, but I bet my ass she's in a typical parental frenzy. Wanted to be with Jin. Especially that Helen is now working inhuman hours to care for the wounded.”

A peculiar weight settled in Peggy's stomach; heavier and more bitter than her breakfast. It pulled a thought about Gamora to the front of her mind.

Though assurance about her safety should be enough to calm any worries, Peggy suddenly felt restless. There was no reason she shouldn't trust their words, but some unreasonable voice inside her demanded to see Gamora. She needed to check the girl herself, make sure she wasn't harmed.

Peggy said nothing. Only took another bite, hoping to cover these odd feelings with food.

„Any suspicions on what your jolly band of murderers were after?” Tony crossed his arms, gaze shifting from Steve to her.

Peggy wondered if anyone ever told him he's not intimidating at all. Maybe if he wore his armour.

Oh, she knew he could be dangerous in a fight. Outside the battlefield, however, his mien radiated caring disaster rather than scary authority.

She leaned back, still chewing. Processing. Steve's arm was on the back of her chair, his warmth brushing against her nape. She could feel his eyes on her, too. Proximity provided a sense of calm and safety.

They haven't poked the topic, but Peggy was quite sure their assessments of the situation matched.

Black Order never achieved anything by chance.

„Gamora.”

Steve's voice seemed impassive. A few weeks ago Margaret would deem him stone cold and heartless, like that moment when he shrugged at the prospect of Gamora being taken to Maw. Now, however, she heard the ulterior tension. A string about to snap and lash.

It brought a peculiar satisfaction to know she wasn't the only one affected when it came to Gamora. If it came to it, Peggy wouldn't be alone in protecting the girl. Whatever it would take.

Natasha pulled her legs off James' lap and turned to them fully. A shadow crossed her face. For a fleeting second corners of her mouth twitched in a feral grimace before she hid behind her perfectly sculpted mask.

„Pickle?” She asked „Why?”

„Yeah-” Barton (on his who knows which coffee) pulled his legs up, sitting cross-legged on the kitchen counter. Much to Tony's annoyance. „I don't see how a little, cute Pickle could be of grave importance in a plan to rule whole universe.”

Peggy looked at Steve, certain to hear the truth from him. He was Thanos' favorite, she predicted many of Father's plans reached Nomad's ears before anyone else's.

Steve's deep frown meant he had no idea.

Perhaps, he had an inkling, but not enough proof to support the theory. Peggy hasn't considered it before either, used to dealing with hard evidence and stolen bits of information. However, years of espionage taught her not to ignore whispered gossips, or exaggerated tales. Rumors rarely were true, but they paved a trail that lead to great discoveries.

„There's only one reason Thanos would conduct a chase as such after one person.” Steve's eyes were locked on Peggy as he spoke. „But I don't know what ties Gamora to any of the Infinity Stones.”

She almost laughed.

While she expected him to know more details about Thanos' schemes, he believed the same about her.

Peggy shook her head with a sigh. She poked her half-eaten pancake with a fork then put it down.

A theory sprouted in her mind, quite ridiculous at first sight. The more she thought about it, the better the puzzles fit together. Which, if she was correct, gave them advantage over Thanos. For a while, at least.

„Gamora is a Zen-Whoberi.” She mused aloud. „In some systems it's believed their race knew where one of the stones is. Perhaps protected it themselves.”

„But we found no trace of it after decimation.” Steve countered, unaware of how casual his tone sounded mentioning a genocide he participated in. „No archives, even.”

Thanos always made sure they scavenged territories they raided. He put it in beautiful words about cherishing cultures and traditions which nations themselves disregarded. But it was always about finding anything useful, or disabling potential retribution.

No Zen-Whoberi elders provided Thanos with any substantial information on Infinity Stones, repeating only phrases about lost histories and eons that passed since any of the Gems resurfaced anywhere.

„Sometimes the best way to protect something is to wipe out any trace of it.” Peggy said. „No record, no prints. No living generations to pass the hard knowledge. Leave only hints which in time fade and twist into something no one pays much attention.”

And wasn't it ironic how she didn't pay it any attention before.

„Because who would take seriously a fairytale for children?” She huffed a little laugh.

They all stared at her, Steve included, as if she looked crazier than ever before. If she was the one listening to this theory, she'd assume it's impossible. Which was exactly why it had to be real.

„You mean to tell me that Gamora might know the whereabouts of a powerful stone without even realizing it? Because it's been passed on through generations as a Red Riding Hood bedtime story?” Tony's face reflected a weird mix of expressions, morphing one into another in no time.

„More like Green Riding Hood.” Clint muttered.

Natasha, out of all of them, seemed most convinced. She leaned forward, pushing a few plates aside to comfortably rest her elbows on the table.

„Do you have any assumptions?” Natasha asked Peggy directly, ignoring Tony's squeak of protest.

That she didn't look to Steve for confirmation, but was ready to listen to any bits Margaret might provide, evoked a new feeling in Peggy.

„It's the Soul Stone.” Of that Peggy was sure. Gamora's tale left no doubts on the matter, connecting the power after which so many hungered to the ability of winning souls. „The tale is of soul enticing siblings, Voran and Mira, who-”

She paused.

Why it hadn't occurred to her before, she had no idea. But the answers seemed to be given on a silver platter. If one willed to listen.

„Voran and Mira,” Peggy repeated in disbelief.

She turned her head to look at Steve so fast it made her dizzy - „Vormir. It has to be about Vormir.”

* * *

Peggy stared at her own reflection, barely recognizing herself in the mirror. Her features were the same, yet it felt like looking at someone dissimilar.

It had little to do with the new suit which Tony gave her with a nonchalant shrug as if he was merely giving her a piece of fruit.

The design was comparable to her old suit, though the fabric felt much lighter. Less constricting than her Black Order gear. Black color was gone, replaced with shades of dark blue.

There was an emblem on her shoulder. A little tag beneath it read, _Carter_.

The suit, while underlining her abandonment of Thanos' service, wasn't the sole reason Peggy saw herself a stranger.

That woman in the mirror looked different. Eyes which usually shown either emptiness or anger, now glinted. Paleness she never cared about transformed into light pink, erasing dark circles under her eyes. Her skin felt softer.

„You're almost ready.” Steve appeared in the bathroom doorway.

His suit was different too. The same dark blue as Peggy's. On his chest there was a star with two stripes spreading toward his shoulders. The harness he had on was made of light colored leather. His fingerless gloves as well.

So were hers, she noticed.

„Upgrade?” She quirked a brow. Her gaze slid down and up his body appreciatively.

For some reason, he looked hotter in that suit.

„Had to wear my Black Order combat gear when I was still in and out of the Sanctuary. As it won't be happening ever again, I can go with this one.” He swiped his hand over the star on his chest. „Tony likes tinkering with suits and weapons.”

„Results are quite impressive.” Peggy nodded, licking her lips.

Steve grinned. It surprised her how the sight of his smile knocked air out of her lungs.

He stepped closer. When he reached out she expected his touch. Instead, he presented her with a forgotten item.

Her retractable staff.

Hesitantly, Peggy took it. She swirled it in her palm then, in a sharp move, unfolded it to its full length. Vibranium glinted, intact.

Despite it being a weapon gifted to her by Thanos, the pole felt like a natural component. Complimentary. Fitting even now, without evoking repulsion. It was a part of her. Useful. It could be used against those who equipped her with it; and in a twisted way it felt very satisfying.

„Now I'm ready.” Peggy's fingers clenched on the staff, her back straightened.

„We are.” Steve nodded.

They went downstairs and outside. The others were already waiting, suited up. Their colors didn't match exactly, yet somehow they still looked like members of the same team. Perhaps it was the design, with characteristic emblems and details. Or maybe the newly found sense of belonging.

Peggy noted Terrans had more weapons on them. Her staff and a gun in a leather thigh-holster were quite minimalistic compared to Barton's array of bow, arrows, katana, and guns.

She wouldn't dare to guess how many knives James' had hidden on him.

They took two cars to get to the headquarters (with Tony ostentatiously flying off in his armour). At the compound most of the rubble was cleared. Holes in the ground were refilled. A squadron of shiny, slim copies of Stark's suit were flying around, fixing everything.

Twin ships awaited on what used to be a landing stripe.

Per their final agreement, two small teams would go in different directions.

Tony and James were staying on Earth to overlook preparations for potential invasion. Apparently, Tony had the best chances at getting the World Council's approval do to whatever they wanted (mostly because he didn't care much for their orders and had too much influence on world-wide economy for anyone to deny him).

„Everyone ready?” Steve cast a look around when they gathered in a small clearing between the ships.

„You know your teams, you know your missions. Though some of us know the place and who they're meeting there-” He directed at Natasha and Barton- „that doesn't mean you should know what to expect.”

When during their planning they mentioned Asgard, Peggy was fairly surprised. Not only of Terrans knowing of it, but that they've already made an ally there. A powerful one, if not the most important for the future scheme of things.

Thor was the oldest son and future ruler of Asgard. A god with astonishing powers and equally admirable skills. And in character so very unlike his father, which was a high compliment.

According to Steve, Asgard harbored one of the Infinity Stones.

Their goal wasn't to get it. Not for now, at least. But to warn Thor and form a plan ensuring that Space Stone won't get into Thanos' hands.

If they played it right, they might learn where the Reality Stone is, as well. Steve was certain Asgardians had it in their hands in the past, they for sure knew where it was hidden.

„When you're there,” Peggy said to Natasha, „watch out for Loki.”

„Thor's viperish brother?” Judging by Natasha's scowl she had met him and already formed an opinion. Not a positive one.

„Loki is very dangerous.” Peggy warned. His powers, though impressive, were the last thing to worry about. „He's been scheming with Thanos for a while now. And he's so slick about it no one's aware it.”

Just like Thanos couldn't suspect that she knew of it. Loki's attempts to get into Thanos' grace (undoubtedly to gain himself power and position) were kept a secret from everyone. Even Maw.

„How do _you_ know that?” There was no distrust in Barton's tone, only curiosity.

„I am the best spy.” She replied, corner of her mouth tilting in a smirk.

When Natasha mirrored it, Peggy felt like grinning in childish happiness. Lack of hostility in teammates gave her a boost much stronger than vicious motivation which glares from Black Order ignited.

„Okay then.” Steve's serious tone doused the little flame of amusement that flickered between them. „Watch out for each other. Get back here in one piece.”

„The same goes for you two.” James looked pointedly at him and Peggy. „Just because you spent most of your life in outerspace doesn't mean you're more prepared.”

He let out a little sigh and shook his head.

„Just-” he stepped forward and wrapped his arms around Steve- „Don't do anything stupid.”

„How can I? You're taking all the stupid with you.” Steve chuckled, returning his hug.

To her surprise, Peggy found herself in a warm hug as well. Bucky's hold didn't linger, as if he sensed she still wasn't used to physical contact outside of threatening situation.

„Let's move it, guys.” Tony clapped his hands. He pointed to Natasha and Barton then to the ship on the left. „Team Asses for Asgard.”

Barton grinned and Natasha rolled her eyes. She looked at James with intensity that nearly made Peggy's own heart crush. He flashed a smile which faded as he watched Nat board the ship.

Tony waved impatiently at Peggy and Steve, pointing them toward the other spacecraft.

„Team Vormir, off you go too.”

As they walked up the platform Peggy looked over her shoulder. She stole a last glance at James and Tony, and a patch of green grass they stood on.

Her chest felt heavy when she sat in the cockpit. Quickly, she wiped her sweaty palms on her thighs and buckled belts around her torso. Her and Steve prepared for takeoff in silence, switching into focused mode.

Peggy forced herself not to look at the view stretching beneath them as they flew, convincing herself she could admire the swirls of green and blue when they get back.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who's ready for a trip to Vormir?

Vormir was eerie.

Whether it was the planet itself, or the drastic change in scenery between Earth's splashes of colors and Vormir's gloomy violets.

Purple sand formed soft, wavy dunes. In hollows between them sparkling pools reflected bright curve of the sickle sun. It seemed that part eclipse wasn't an occurrence here, but a constant.

The whole planet was weaved of vibrant shades of a late sunset – frozen in state between day and night.

Between life and death.

Uncanny atmosphere, though raising hair on their napes, didn't feel exactly scary. There was no sense of oncoming danger. Only a chill that ran down a spine, accompanying the notion of entering a sacred place. Otherworldly.

There were no signs of life. Not even small creatures crawling in the sand, nor blade of grass peeking between stone pathways partly covered in gravel.

The sea of dunes and ponds stretched in an almost flat, infinite landscape. However, one landmark on the horizon stood out.

A steep mountain crowned with what seemed to be twin monoliths.

„I guess it's not a random change in scenery.” Steve pointed out.

„It better not be. I would be really pissed if we climbed that thing in vain.” Peggy muttered.

Closer to the mountain sands dispersed, revealing solid stone. Black, with a sheen of purple. A shallow, but vast lake surrounded the mountain. A smooth sheet of water reflecting the sky. There was only one path leading across the lake to reach the mountain and steps carved on one side of it.

They kept close to each other as they walked. Each ready to grab, or push the other, if any sudden dangers appeared.

As they climbed up it got colder. Wind swept between sharp rocks, hitting Steve and Peggy's faces with growing force.

They helped each other move up slippery steps – fingers grasping tight, arms pulling, bodies pressed close.

At the very top wind blew snow their way; few cold petals that melted away quickly. It wasn't a snowstorm, rather a dance between wind and icy speckles.

Peggy lifted her hand to shield her eyes. She gasped when her suit unexpectedly warmed up. Heat spread through her body, forming an additional shield from the cold. Tony's designs were truly admirable; not only practical, but anticipating critical situations.

An arch-shaped rock opened the way onto a wide, flat shelf between two, tall monoliths. On the other side puffs of snow laid still, as if the wind existed only on one side of the mountain.

A silhouette appeared. Conjured from shadows and flicking light, quickly forming into a shape of a corporal body.

In unison, Steve and Peggy drew out their weapons. Their stances adjusting in preparation for a fight.

Their opponent, however, made no move to attack. Approaching them slowly, arms at its sides, it seemed to be of no threat.

With the stories of mercenaries disappearing here without trace, Peggy wouldn't consider them to be completely safe.

„Margaret. Steven.” Low, soft voice spoke their names.

It scared them, but neither even flinched. A fleeting thought that they might be facing someone who gave his loyalty to Thanos ran Peggy's blood cold. She swung the pole and caught it both hands.

„You know us.” Steve narrowed his eyes, his fingers clenching tighter on the shield's straps.

„I know your souls,” came a reply. Then the person took a step forward, stepping out of the shadows.

It was a young man. Looked younger than them. He wore a faded cloak; simple, practical clothes beneath it. No armor, no weapon. His green skin and dark hair left no doubts about his Zen-Whoberi parentage. Only his eyes were different: a glowy amber, as eerie as the whole planet.

„You're Voran.” Peggy straightened, lowering her staff.

Though she took the legend as the right direction, she didn't expect it to be so close to the truth in every detail.

„Yes.” Corners of his mouth curved in a faint smile.

For a split of a second his face brightened, revealing a carefree boy he has been once. Merely a flash of someone forever lost to this cold, lonely place.

„It's nice to speak to someone after all this time. But I'm afraid what I have to say won't be as pleasant for you.”

„Which is?” Somewhat reluctantly, Steve lowered his arm to the side. Then, after a pause, secured the shield on his back.

„You're here for the stone.” Voran saddened. „Even though your intentions for it are different from those who came in the past, the price is still the same.”

His gaze shifted between the two of them and he shook his head. If he could read them – their souls, as he put it – perhaps he saw the catastrophe they were trying to prevent. Or anticipated a tragedy to swallow them.

Turning, he gestured for them to follow him. He lead them between the massive columns to the precipice. A sharp edge on the mountain shelf, beneath which spread a deep, foggy abyss.

From above the shimmer of the lake was unnoticeable. It looked like a dark, purple bottom.

„To wield the power of souls you have to sacrifice one. One that you love most.” Voran's voice become hollow, baring the heartbreaking pain he had to still experience after eons. „Only breaking your own heart will allow you to hold the stone.”

It didn't sank slowly, rather pierced right through them.

Voran's words spiked adrenaline, igniting a fight or flight response. But neither moved. Eyes cast downwards, measuring what had to be a not so long, but a dreadful fall no one could survive.

One of them had to die for the other to get the stone.

For the first time, prospect of death evoked something other than indifference.

Peggy's lip trembled, though no words spilled out. Acidic taste filled her mouth.

Warm fingers wrapped around her wrist, pulling her back from the edge. Steve's grip was firm; it grounded her, though Peggy's head still felt dizzy.

When she looked up at Steve her chest filled with ache.

Fear in his eyes matched her own. Neither of them experienced it before as strongly as now.

Risk of dying in a battle brought less anxiety. They didn't particularly care if they died when they lead Thanos' armies. As part of Terran team they could aid each other, or have other team members help and protect them.

Here, now, no luck would help. It was inevitable.

Just when she began to see hope for her future. When she wanted to build, instead of destroying. _Fuck_, she didn't want to lose that.

But Peggy knew she had no future if Steve wasn't in it. He could do it, perhaps. He already had.

„I- I'll go.” She attempted to sound sure, determined, but her voice cracked anyway.

„No.” Steve growled. His hold on her arm tightened. Needlessly, for she had no true desire to get away from his touch.

„It has to be me.” She argued. With him, but mostly with herself. „For all the death and pain I brought. For all the innocent lives I've taken without remorse. _This_, this is how I can redeem myself.”

Peggy didn't believe a sacrifice would erase committed crimes, but it provided means to guarantee a life without threat for millions of others. This one good thing she could do.

„We've both taken lives.” Steve countered. „It might as well be me to make the sacrifice.”

The thought of it alone crushed Peggy's heart. She shook her head to wipe that terrifying image out.

Though blood stained his hands as well, Steve was a good person. In her eyes, at least. He ripped her away from the darkness, teaching her anew how affection and light feel.

Peggy moved closer, until warmth engulfed them both in illusion of safety. Tilting her head back, she looked at him. Memorizing sharp angles and soft curves of his face.

She reached her free hand to cup his cheek and smiled sadly.

„Before you, I knew nothing but shadows.”

Tears trickled down her cheeks, smudging salty regret in the corners of her mouth.

A sudden kiss hitched her breath. Steve's lips were anything but soft against hers. He laid a hard, desperate claim on her.

Peggy wrapped an arm around his neck, allowing him to pull her onto her tiptoes to deepen the kiss. They were both out of breath when they pulled apart. Peggy's cheeks glistened with more tears.

Steve's forehead rested against hers, his hand on the back of her head. She could feel his heart hammering in his chest.

„I won't let either of us live in the shadows ever again.” Steve vowed, slowly pulling back to catch Peggy's gaze.

She wanted, oh so badly, to allow him to fulfill his promise. Their circumstances wouldn't. It wasn't just the two of them in this game, but galaxies who depended on the choice they make now.

„I'm afraid you have to.” Peggy sighed. „Your team relies on us. We have to do it for them. For people on Earth and other planets. For-” she swallowed hard- „for Gamora.”

A part of her rebelled against the thought of never seeing the girl again. There was still that dissatisfied urge to check on Gamora after the battle at the compound, which she buried for the sake of completing the mission.

There was more, too. A curiosity to learn more of what fascinated Gamora, a determination to teach her how to properly fight, a need to read her a bedtime story like the Starks did.

She could, Peggy thought, make Steve promise to do all of that when she's gone. Maybe the two of them would remember her.

Steve lifted her hand, clasping it between both of his. His fingers were warm and steady against Peggy's trembling digits. He kept their joined hands between their bodies, coaxing her to lean on him.

„Gamora doesn't need more sacrifices. She needs us to be there for her.” He said softly, holding Peggy's gaze.

„It won't do much, if Thanos gathers all the stones-”

„Then we stop him.” Steve's voice hardened with resolve she has heard before, when he spoke to team pre and post battle.

It wasn't harsh, but strong. Held willpower which felt contagious, increasing her own belief that losing wasn't an option.

„There's never only one way. Something Thanos didn't want to consider, blinded by his own idealized plan. Every problem has a few solutions. Often imperfect, yes, but not requiring paying the highest cost.”

Peggy never accepted half-measures, perhaps due to Father's indoctrination. Only a perfect result counted, no matter the cost. Was she willing to try Steve's approach?

Her heart wanted to. Her mind was caged in fear. It resisted.

„How?” She frowned; her gaze shifted to the precipice and back again.

„Fight with Thanos awaits whether we get all the stones or not.” Steve used his finger to gently tilt her chin. „So we beat him. But first, let's take the stones we have out of equation. Permanently.”

For some time now Peggy suspected he had a backup plan, one unknown to the rest of the team (everyone beside James), but treated it as her ingrained wariness.

As it turned out, Nomad mastered deceit at highest levels – first gracefully backstabbing Thanos, now revealing he has an ace up his sleeve.

„You know a way to destroy the stones.” A twisted exhilaration burned out Peggy's fear.

It wouldn't stop Thanos fully, but put a huge hole in his grand plan. Thanos might somehow obtain the soul stone, but it was still better than risking him getting all of them.

An acceptable adjustment of their scheme.

Neither of them looked over their shoulder as they walked away from the edge. Still tense, but now with a new objective. Silently, Voran accompanied them to the archway. He stayed behind as they walked down the mountain.

„Wish we made that decision, Mira.” He said to no one. „Running forever wasn't ideal, but at least we'd be together. Maybe we could have prevented some of the atrocities.”

* * *

A cockpit never felt safer or cozier. Seeing the cursed mountain peak on the horizon, Peggy sank into pilot's chair with a sigh of relief.

She watched it disappear as they left Vormir, without any regret.

Burst of colors as they jumped through clicks never seemed as beautiful, either. That awe didn't wash out even when they made the last click and flew through the dark, star-peppered space toward the Earth.

„Destroying the stones has something to do with Wanda, doesn't it?” Peggy asked, unbuckling her seatbelts and twisting in her seat to look at Steve.

His eyes remained sharp on the perimeter, but he smiled.

„You _are_ the best spy.” He chuckled.

Peggy arched one brow, her lips curled in a smirk.

„Infinity stones are resilient. I don't think there's any known method to destroy them. But-” Steve paused for a second- „they can annihilate each other.”

„So you can use one stone to destroy the rest.” Peggy perked up.

She wondered if that was part of the reason he kept in touch with Asgardians, planning to use their stone to erase the rest. That still didn't explain a mysterious teenage girl's role.

„Or something that's been enhanced with the stone.” Steve turned to look at her.

A little frown creased her forehead as she processed his clue. She knew the stones were used as weapons, or as means to create other weapons. Somehow it never occurred to her it could be used on live forms as well.

And why hasn't she? She spent nearly twenty years with Maw and Thanos who cherished experiments on people they could later use.

„Wanda was in close contact with one of the stones.” Peggy didn't really want to imagine how exactly it happened.

She knew of excruciating pain, of being forged into a weapon. Learning the details of someone else's similar experience wasn't helpful in any way, it only brought back bad memories.

„The mind stone.” Steve nodded. „Wanda and her twin brother, Pietro, were a part of a project that used the mind stone to enhance humans. Terrans spent many years after Thanos' invasion to rebuild and prepare for any other future dangers. Unfortunately, some were beyond unethical.”

Peggy figured their team assembled as a result of one of those projects. Or a counter project to those cruel, immoral ideas.

„I was after the mind stone when I found Wanda. Conditions they held her in weren't any better than what we experienced on Sanctuary. And they kept her locked at all times.” Steve's eyes darkened at the memory, muscles in his neck flexed. „Her brother didn't make it...”

„She wasn't my mission, so I left her in the cell and went for the stone. I was halfway done with all the soldiers and staff of the project when the Avengers came in. And I came face to face with James.”

Steve looked away, lost in a shard of memory. He sighed, brushed aside strands of hair from his forehead, then returned his focus to Peggy.

„He said you didn't recognize him.” Bucky chuckled when he told her that story, but she didn't think it was amusing when each of them was ready to kill the other.

„Not at first. Not even when he said my name. But it was enough to stop me from killing him.” Steve leaned his head against the seat. „Outnumbered, I chose to retreat. After returning to the dungeon's cell.”

„You rescued Wanda.”

So it was a behavioral pattern – Steve's need to save others.

„I took her to a hospital and left her there. The Avengers tracked her later.” He finished. After a moment he smiled and rolled his eyes, adding:

„I came back a while later, with the intention to get that mind stone. At least that's what I told myself. But I didn't even attempt to attack Bucky when he faced me again. That's how we started working together.”

„You and Wanda became close too.” Peggy pointed out, feeling an irrational prick of jealousy.

„Being tortured to become a weapon for someone to use is bonding.” Steve snorted.

„Does she know of your plan? How high are the chances she can even do it?” Though his plans were detailed and brilliant, Steve demonstrated a tendency to not include anyone in on them.

„She's powerful. Really powerful. And she's ready.”

He was certain of that because he too knew how deep runs the need to wipe out the source of your torment. How much one desires to destroy that which made them into an instrument.

Peggy nodded. She had no intention to argue on the matter. There was no reason to, so far Steve proved he knew what he was doing. Even if sometimes he didn't understand fully his own motivation.

When Earth's blue globe appeared in their sight she felt a surge of joy. This time she didn't refrain from admiring the colors and textures as they descended through layers of clouds.

The compound looked much better than it did when they left. The grounds were still mostly turned upside-down, but the buildings were restored.

Construction works were clearly far from finished, considering no one was on site.

„We're at the compound.” Steve reported through the comm when they landed. „Send us rendez-vous coordinates.”

Crackling sound and bits of someone's voice came over the line. Then static.

Steve frowned. He switched on another mode and repeated his call. Again, all they heard was single sounds of a male voice, probably James, barely audible through the buzzing and crackling.

„What the hell? Are they sitting in some fucking bunker?”

He was about to change the channels, try contacting other team members, when daylight seeping into the cockpit darkened. A shadow hung over them.

Steve and Peggy exchanged looks then momentarily jumped off their seats. They had weapons already in hands as they opened the back flap.

The enormous spacecraft high above cast shadow not only over their ship, but over half of the compound.

Cold wave washed over Peggy. Hair on the back of her neck stood up.

„Thanos.”


End file.
